Bring On The Wonder
by shannondoll
Summary: Sam is about to leave for Stanford but Dean isn't going to let that happen. At a motel along Route 66 their lives are changed. Dean is dealing with the after affects of the car crash. He's finding he has to accept Sam for who he is now. AU, mild slash
1. Chapter 1

"I don't understand why you can't come with me. Just… just pull over, turn around and take me back. We can get a place. Hunt. Work. _Anything_. Just come with me, Dean."

"You know I can't do that, man."

"Why not?"

"… Because."

They're driving down a dusty road and Sam's legs are naturally sprawled out as much as the tiny space allows in the passenger side of the Impala. It's not the first time Sam asks Dean to go with him. Or the second. Or the third. Sam has said it so many times within the last hour that to his brother's ears his voice has ebbed into a lulling hum of mumbled words. The words don't seem to have any anchor behind them but it calms him just the same; there's a strange comfort in hearing Sam ramble on, to know he's here right beside him and _safe._

"Well, either way I'm not going back to dad. I mean it, Dean. With or without you, either way I'm gone."

Dean doesn't have to look over to know that Sam's stubborn chin is set. He reminds himself to focus on the trees flying past in order to stay awake. The drive to California wasn't an easy one and they've been out of caffeine for miles. It's been hours, long, hard hours since either of them has had any rest.

Dean knows that to Sam, the elaborate dream idea he cooked up is simple as pie: Sam can attend classes while Dean gets a job, maybe rent an apartment for the both of them, something cozy and close to campus… But it's just a pipe dream is all it is. Just one more thing that Dean can't do.

He can't let Sam continue the trek to the West Coast. Somehow letting Sam go is an insult to their father. Without both of them out there fighting the good fight, who is left to help inflict retribution on the ones that should suffer for their family's heartache? No. It's not right, taking the easy way out, living the "normal" life while their dad risks his life from town to town. And there's no way Dean's letting his little brother walk off into some unknown danger completely unsupervised; even school campuses can't be _that_ safe.

Then again, making Sam go back home is even beyond Dean's control.

But what Dean _can_ do is drive.

Maybe they'll never be three parts of a whole family again, maybe where they'll end up isn't exactly what Sam yearns for, but hey, at least they'll have each other, at least he can make Sam safe. Not Stanford but not hunting, just together in an in-between type of limbo that they can both live with.

"You hungry?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Stop if you want. I promise I won't bolt from the car or anything." With a curse word on the tip of his tongue, Sam jabs the toe of his scuffed sneaker against the glove box in a quick, angry thrust. Dean's about to call him out on marking up the interior but before he can utter a remark Sam's off again, scowling at the clouds outside. "It was dad that said if I was leaving I should stay gone. 'M just doin' what he said."

Dean hides a sigh under his breath as he turns down another side street. There's no use arguing the matter when he can't muster up enough energy to deal with a riled up Winchester. In his opinion it's sort of a moot point - that thing about their dad wanting Sam to leave. It's not true. Well, not _entirely_ at least.

There's always two ways to decipher a dialogue and from Dean's standpoint it was obvious that half of what was shouted out between the two of them was just downright bullshit. What Dean was able to make out, what between the sheer volume and cacophony of cussing, was it all boiled down to the same damn thing: family. Both feeling like the other didn't care and yet _wanting_ the other to care so much it hurt.

The memory of it alone has Dean shaking his head. _'They'll never agree on anything. With bullheadedness like that, either way someone's going to lose. A man prides himself on lack of emotional depth, but you give that same man I slash to the heart and suddenly you're left with a vulnerable mess.' _

After Sam left it only took a little while for Dean to realize he couldn't sit around to pick up the pieces. No, he'd done that far too many times to know that progress would never be made. If Dad taught him anything it was that_family comes first. Always. _

It was that particular conception that had Dean teetering near the doorway on his way to follow his brother; half in, half out – same as he'd always been. In-between.

Part of him wanted to stay, wanted Sam to come crawling back with a shameful apology and his tail between his legs. Part of him (though he'd never admit aloud) wanted to stay simply because he wanted the comfort of his father. To follow the orders, to be a soldier, to fight the good fight with his old man gripping the reigns. It was familiar. It was _dutiful_. It was right and important and everything he'd every known.

The one thing Dean learned from his father was that family came first. Always.

But if dad taught him anything it was this: to first and foremost, under every circumstance, no matter what, always, and I mean _always,_ take care of Sammy.

And that's exactly what he intended to do. And that's exactly when he left.

Like a bat out of Hell, rubber burning tar, ass-crack of dawn with only an impulse and half a mind, racing down the road like every second counted, he drove. He drove until his white-knuckled hands couldn't grip the wheel any tighter, _Welcome to California_ sign stamped ominously in the rearview mirror, beckoning him forward like a man on a mission.

He drove until he found Sam. Water trodden and worse for the wear, but he found him and that's all that mattered. While driving down the big Interstate 680 with a gruff pedal to the floor, west coast flying past without a second glance he found him.

He had to do a double take when chestnut locks caught under a purple hoodie – two sizes too big - snuck into his peripheral vision. With a smirk on his face Dean thanked whoever was listening for his little brother's odd attachment to that insanely bright sweatshirt with an equally luminous, white logo printed on the front. If it weren't for the shock of color in the midst of the desolate pit stop full of dirt and soot, he never would've found him.

It took a while to persuade Sam to get into the car, to convince him enough that they wouldn't drive back to dad, that Stanford could wait a few more days, that all Dean wanted to do was talk.

With Sam sitting next to him most of the unease of leaving washed away with the rain outside. With Sam by his side, safe, whole, they could figure out anything, anything as long as it didn't involve Stanford.

Sam wanted to get out and Dean could appreciate that. But miles away from each other wasn't going to be an option. His mouth ran dry just imagining what life would be like just him and dad. It wasn't doable. Hell, it wasn't even _possible_. He needed Sam close, needed that solid weight within arms reach.

"_Dean."_ There's exasperation behind the word, like Sam's repeated himself numerous times without answer.

Dean clears his throat and snaps out of his reverie. "Sorry."

"If you're too tired man, just pull over and let me out. Either come with me back to San Antonio or drop me off and go back to dad." Sam's voice sounds strong but Dean catches the lie behind the words. Sam needs him just as much as he needs Sam.

"You're not going back there, Sam. You give me one more ultimatum and I _will _shove you out that door. It's a promise."

"Whatever." It's mumbled into his clenched fist and he turns to gaze out the window once more. "Where are we going, anyways? Back to dad? _Home_," he sneers. "A hunt? _Where?"_

"We're just… we're just going. Okay?" Like hell if Dean knows where their car is heading, all he knows is they're going away; away from California, away from hunting, they're just going. No pre-determined destination, just the blazing horizon and the rising sun of a new dawn that gets closer and closer with each mile gained. "Put your seatbelt on. Jesus. I swear, Sam, you're just itchin' to get out somehow."

There's a huff of breath from the passenger side, the fumbling of fingers on a clipped buckle…

And then suddenly the world tips over with a screech of weight against asphalt. Everything is ablaze with light and darkness simultaneously, screaming metal, a tornado of force and noise and it's all consuming yet there's nothing, a nothingness that takes hold while all else ceases to make sense. And then there's only pain. Pain so hot it burns bright.

An eye squints open and Dean sees himself, almost out-of-body, ten feet thrown from the car. It doesn't make sense and he almost laughs out of hysterical fear. He can't quite grasp the idea, how he's so far away from the burning lump of twisted black metal that stares back at him. There's a stabbing burn in his left leg but it's not as bad as the throb in his head.

And then there's an instance when reality clicks in and comprehension finally dawns. _Car crash. A car crash. _

His stomach drops like a lead weight plummeting to the bottom of the ocean and all Dean sees is the charred car blanketed under a puff of polluted smoke. Panic chokes off the painful break of his shin as he crawls over a forgotten hub cab towards the smoking heap all the while fervidly calling for Sammy.


	2. Chapter 2

It feels like the stabbing of a knife.

Razor sharp tip lashing against his skin; just in and out, again and again until the pain sears so white hot it burns numbingly cold.

The pain, or lack there of – for when the pain becomes so consuming, all else seems to stop– the slow, ringing of his ears starts.

The words _Sam _and _Help_ muffle through to his eardrums along with the steady pounding of his pulse thudding deep within his chest.

There's something in the tone of voice of the man shouting that makes him want to stay awake. The panic, the pleading . . .

He squints open an eye and feels rather than sees the wind sweep and dip down his exposed back to where the right sleeve of his sweatshirt is completely torn off.

It's harder to ignore the pain of his arm now that he's coming more into consciousness. The sensation of the stabbing knife has died down however, along with the high-pitched ringing of his ears that slows down to more of a dull hum.

With a jolt he realizes that there was never a knife, only the burning sting of the below-freezing wind that howls past with a piercing cry.

Everything seems to be spinning. Nothing makes sense and it's so hard to keep his eyes open.

At one point he was in a car, right? Or, no. Maybe, maybe he was dreaming that he was in a car? A black car?

He moves to sit up, to clear the confusion, but it only makes everything worse and the piercing pain becomes more intense, jutting up his forehead and wrapping around his neck. He falls back down against the asphalt with a cracking thud and he loses the battle of keeping his eyes from shutting.

And then, as the world starts to go black, the man is there, he's reaching for him - the man with the nice voice.

* *

Dean's twisted leg is set at an awkward angle as he paws at Sam's chest, trying to get a more comforting response out of him – something other than a moan and a pair of eyes rolling back into his head.

Not sure whether he should move his brother, or even touch him for that matter, Dean lets Sam lay there helpless. All he can do is hold back the tears, keep a hand over his kid brother's still frame, and ease Sam's head to rest down on his discarded leather jacket. But it's so damn hard to keep the rising panic at bay. He wants to scream out. He wants to holler at the top of his voice – bellow out that it's not fair, _I just got him back; don't you dare take him away from me now._

It's not long before Dean realizes that he _is_ screaming – screaming at Sam to stop messing around and to just open his damn eyes already. But it's no use. Sam can't hear him. No one can.

Sam's not pinned by the car, thank God, but he's for damn sure not all right. They both aren't. But right now, Dean's only concern is to make sure his brother stays breathing.

It takes a while for Dean to remember that he's not the only one with a cell phone. Since his is in a crumbled, broken little pile a few yards away, he gently reaches a hand into Sam's shredded pocket and thanks his lucky stars that the Blackberry is still in one piece.

He dials everything but '911' for the first few tries, his fingers tremble too hard for the numbers to punch in just right. He knows he'll look back on it all and everything will be a blur –hell, maybe it'll be even funny, though probably not; no, definitely not.

The ambulance arrives – all obnoxious, dooming sirens and flashing lights - and Sam is still unresponsive. He doesn't seem to be bleeding out, nothing appears to be outwardly displaced . . . But Dean still refuses to sit down in the offered stretcher; he refuses to get anywhere near a place where Sam is not - _"No. Not until you get my brother inside. I'm riding with him."_

The sirens seem to get louder as Dean awkwardly helps push the stretcher into place.

He sits beside Sam who's all ashen-faced and bleeding from the mouth. It crumbles something deep within him to look upon this boy, this kid, his boy in a less than perfect state. There's a childish impulse for him to close his eyes and look away, to pretend it's all a nightmare. But he can't do that, not when Sam's counting on him.

Dean forces himself to keep his gaze steady and he slips his fingers around Sam's cold hand. He softly squeezes, strokes a calloused thumb over the back of his brother's palm – the motion is so natural, so well-practiced that if he shuts his eyes right now he could almost pretend that they're six and two-years-old again and that it's just another night of scary dreams and dad not home and Sam's cuddling up next to him – shaky and sniffling – seeking comfort from a midnight terror.

But they're not six and two. They're not safe. They're not okay and this time Dean can't make it better with a bowl of ice cream and a silly joke.

"It's . . ." Dean coughs into his hand and tries to dislodge the tightness in his throat so he can whisper loud enough for Sam to hear. "It's okay, Sammy." He sucks in a breath. "It's all gonna be okay."

He glances over to the paramedic who's now slipping an oxygen mask around Sam's face. The guy looks back – sympathetic yet thoroughly detached – and Dean just bows his head.

* *

It's been hours, maybe. Three or four, give and take. Yet to an innocent bystander it's like the same scene has been playing on repeat in an endless loop.

To Dean it feels like days.

There's no new news on Sam. Of course not. He's asked enough times and gotten the same practiced response to know there's no use in asking; he might as well just do as they say and wait for one of the doctors to come out.

He's pacing the halls of the emergency room – the new cast of his leg already making it difficult to get around - the industrial-like lights are beaming unnecessarily vibrant as if to brighten every inch of the damn place.

They haven't given him much to go off of – of Sam's condition. He knows that as soon as the doors to the ER opened, Sam was rushed into surgery and then into the ICU while he was taken down to the opposite end of the hospital to fix the break and patch up the scrapes. After that it's been don't ask don't tell.

Threatening the nurses definitely wasn't one of Dean's best ideas and trying to sneak his way past the _authorized personnel only_ area didn't work (though he did try). Which is why when any man walking into the waiting room area wearing a white trench coat came near, Dean practically stalked the poor dudes until they told him anything they knew – which, of course, was a whole lot of nada.

At about three in the afternoon Dean gives up – nine hours in counting and he can't even stand up anymore. There's a lonely chair in the corner near the vending machines and he grabs it before someone else claims it; he curls up with his head resting against the cool metal. Less than a minute and he's drifting off into an uneasy rest full of fire and metal and smoke.

* *

He inhales a sharp breath and his hand indistinctively reaches towards the nonexistent gun in his back pocket. But underneath the wave of alarm there's a sense of comprehension. Dean suddenly recognizes that he's still in the hospital and that the hand shaking him awake is one of the men in the white trench coats.

"Mr. Winchester? Sorry to wake you, but if it's no trouble, I'd like to speak with you about your brother."

"Yeah. 'Course." He blinks a few times, gets his bearings set before shakily getting to his feet. He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw - he's already prepared for the possible impact of the man's next words. "How is he?"

"We have some good news. Samuel is making progress." The man offers a warm smile but Dean wants none of it. "He's stable and taking well to the transfusions."

"Wait. Transfusions?"

"He lost some blood," the doctor cuts off. "Internal bleeding. After the impact of the crash the contusion in his head started to rupture. The damage wasn't accountable until we began the surgical procedure, but we were able to stop the blood flow enough to get the bleeding under control. After that everything went very smoothly. The surgery couldn't have gone better."

"But how is he? Is he okay? Is he, just, he's okay, right?"

The man takes a breath, bites his top lip, "He's stable."

"Which means…?" His voice is starting to hitch, his angel almost at boiling point. "Come on, doc. You gotta give me more than that."

"He should be out of ICU in about a week. Maybe less." He softly places his hand on Dean's shoulder and steers him out of the way of a passing gurney. "I can't foresee any possible complications and within a matter of months he'll be should be back to being healthy – more or less."

Dean makes sure to stare good and hard at the doctor's face. He knows when he's not being told the whole story. He's interrogated enough people to know when he's being fed lies and bullshit. "But…" he trails off, waiting for the worst.

"_But_," the doctor begins, clearly troubled. "You see… probably within minutes of the impact, Samuel lapsed into a mild grade coma. The concussion he received when the car flipped caused his body to shut down. Now, the coma was very mild, very short-lived," he says this with his hands raised, as if bracing Dean from making any abrupt movement, "but it… well… it _complicated _the bruising of his brain even further."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but Samuel may not ever be the same. The person you knew before the crash will never be that same person again."

"I don't. I… I don't get it."

"We can't know the extent of the injuries until he wakes up from surgery, and even then it can take days for the after-effects of the injuries to take hold - whether the issues be cognitive, language, sensory, we can't know. What we do know is with the right medication, the right care and rehabilitation, Samuel can lead a happy and fulfilling life. He just needs time."

The bile in his throat is starting to rise but he swallows it down, lets it burn. He cups a fist over his mouth. "But he's, he's gonna be handicapped in some way? Like, like, what? Like handicapped how?"

"Mr. Winchester, right now the most we can all do is wait. Best thing you can do for your brother now is go home, get some sleep, and when and if there's any change, I'll call you."

"No. No way. I'm not leaving. I need to see him. He needs me. If he wakes up and I'm not here, I … I… I have… I have…" Before he can even comprehend he's pushing his way through the crowd of people, furious at everyone and shaking so hard he can barely stand.

"No. Wait. Mr. Winchester. Mr. Winchester, you have to stop." The doctor has both hands on his shoulder now – supporting his slowly sinking body and guiding him towards a chair. "They're just rolling him out of surgery now. In a few hours time, if all goes as it should, I'll have one of my nurses bring you in. Don't worry, son. He's in good hands."

The man truly looks compassionate and Dean latches on to that blind hope.

He's never been one to pray in public. Hell, he's never been one to pray at all. But that was then and this is now and right now he has no choice.

Dean slouches forward in the hard-backed seat with his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his heart thudding out loud and hard. . .


	3. Chapter 3

No one seems to notice that Dean is slouched against the wall near the doors to the ICU unit, and if they do notice they don't mind. The emergency room probably gets it's fair share of protective family members not willing to take a back seat when it comes to their loved ones' health and Dean's not an exception.

He's been sitting here for a while now – ever since his previous conversation with the doctor.

It hasn't been easy, sitting against the wall not doing anything yet trying not to think, just staying neutral, staying as far away from feeling as possible. Thinking only makes things worse. So does waiting.

And when the waiting starts to become ridiculous and it seems to make more sense to just go home and collect some new clothes for Sam and himself, the nurses are suddenly there explaining god knows what and ushering him down the hall past the doors of other patients.

With a sudden pause, the nurse tells Dean to _wait right here _and the doctor from before swiftly rushes forward with further information.

"Mr. Winchester," the man holds out his hand in a business-like fashion as if they're meeting each other for the first time and not for the third of fourth time that day. "Your brother is awake and reacting sufficiently to the medicine. The morphine drip will take the edge off the contusion and from there we'll see which way is best to proceed."

"Yeah, sure," Dean impatiently mumbles, signaling with his hand to continue, "but when will he be able to get out of here?"

"He's suffered a severe traumatic brain injury caused by the acceleration of the impact. We've made sure he's gone through all necessary testing: MRI, CT, the works. Everything physical – apart from his hand of course – seems to be working perfectly well."

"Wait, wait. Hand? What hand?"

The doctor takes a breath, like it's paining him more than Dean to say the words aloud. "The bones in his right hand were crushed when the car rolled. We can find him a good physical therapist that will work with him through rehabilitation, but I can't promise he'll ever regain movement again." He looks at Dean and waits for a response, though he doesn't get one. "Look, I'm sorry to be bombarding you with all this information right now, I know it's difficult – "

"You don't have a damn clue how I feel." It's said with spite, but Dean immediately heaves a sigh and rubs his hand over his face in frustration. "I'm sorry. It's just… Shit."

"It's been a long day. I understand."

"So, are we done here?"

"Actually there's something else you need to know before seeing your brother." The man takes a minute to size Dean up before deciding he's in a good enough emotional state to bare the blow. He gently takes a step forward to close the gap and bows his head, taking a softer tone of voice. "I'm afraid the part of the brain that has been damaged has affected his memory. In addition to suffering from post-traumatic amnesia, he seems to have a rare form of retrograde amnesia as well. Of course the affects won't be completely - "

"Cut to the chase," Dean cuts in, all breathless air and trembling words.

"Basically your brother is going to be in a state of confusion - slightly disoriented - for the next few days. Names, places, the crash itself, it's all going to be a little hazy."

"Okay… But that's expected, I mean, right? Hell, I don't remember half of what the hell happened." He tries to go for a soft chuckle but the noise gets caught in his throat and he coughs instead.

"With the retrograde amnesia, Samuel may be unable to recall certain memories _before_ the crash. How significant, we can't be sure. This isn't easy for me to say, but… well, let's say I wouldn't even count on him knowing his own name."

There's an excruciating pause before Dean hears the words he's been dreading:

"I'm so sorry."

"What? No." Dean shakes his head. "No, no, no, no, no." His usual composure seems to be lost and before he can acknowledge what he's doing the hospital walls seem to quiver and he's losing his footing and buckling over like a lead weight.

"Ah, nurse! Nurse, can we please get something over here for Mr. Winchester – possibly some anti-anxiety medicine?"

Once again he's being escorted towards a chair and all eyes of the surrounding hospital staff are on him – which is definitely something he'd rather not prefer. "No. I'm okay. I don't need anything." He refuses the seat, ignoring the frantic nurse. "I just need you to take care of my brother. What room is he in?"

"I can bring you in to see him now, but only for a minute. He still needs his rest."

All Dean can do is jerkily nod and follow behind in the doctor's wake. His feet do a weird stumble across the tiled floor. For the past twelve hours all he's wanted to do was go find Sammy, get to Sammy, talk to Sammy. But now? Now he doesn't know what he wants – doesn't know if he can make himself step forth in that room and see Sam stretched out in those crisp, white sheets, bruised and broken. It's a catch-22. A loss either way. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

But before Dean can even begin contemplating fleeing, he's already inside the doorway, already turning around the corner and the drape is being pulled back to expose the bed.

What Dean's expecting isn't what he sees. He's expecting blood and tubes and unrecognizable features and just plain horror and sadness… but what he sees is Sam.

And for all intense and purposes he looks the same as any other given day, just sleeping, just vulnerable. There are cuts and scrapes of course and looking closer it's visible where they've shaved away some of the hair to do the surgery, but he's whole and he's _there_. The physicality of it, of his brother within reach, it's good no matter what state he's in.

Dean teeters near the end of the bed, hand resting on the cool metal bar. He tries to smile when Sam blurrily squints open his eyes, but the movement is brief and his eyes lazily shut once more without recognition and his soft snores fill the room.

The doctor is waiting by the entryway with the door propped open and Dean takes it as his time to exit.

He'll come back tomorrow. He'll comeback when Sam's done resting. Tomorrow things will be better.

* *

The next day doesn't really lead to much progress - neither does that night. Sam is nearly just as out of it as the last time.

By the third day Dean doesn't really have much hope. There's no point in believing any good will come… which is why it comes as a shock when he turns around the doorway – same as usual – and sees his brother propped up on the pillow sipping out of a Styrofoam cup, face attentive and alert.

It cuts off something in Dean's airway when their eyes meet. It proves something to Dean's power of will that he doesn't throw up right there on the spot - because what he sees in his brother's eyes isn't relief or happiness or even acknowledgement… just incomprehension. Unrecognizable contentment.

Dean figures he should be the one to take the first step. He pushes the nausea down before opening his mouth. "Hi, Sam." His voice is all bravado, a fluid bout of forced confidence.

Sam just blinks back, takes a sip.

"You doin' okay, man?" His hand hesitates before reaching out to gently wiggle Sam's toes underneath the blanket. "I told 'em they should've shaved your whole head, but you know doctors," he rolls his eyes in fake exasperation, "they wouldn't listen." His voice cracks on the last syllable and he turns to stare at something other then his brother's penetrating gaze.

Dean can't tell if Sam's even listening or if he can even hear him for that matter, so he shoots him an illusion of a smile before quickly sauntering out the room and down the hall to break down in private.

The sleeve of his jacket muffles Dean's desperate, heaving sobs.

* *

The next time Dean stays for over an hour. It doesn't get any easier. If anything it gets worse.

This time when he walks out – silent tears rolling down his cheeks – the nurse sadly pats his shoulder and says, "Don't worry son, we can't get him to talk to anybody."

* *

It doesn't take long for Dean to pledge that if it's the last thing he does, he's gonna make Sam speak. Jesus, what he would've given a few years ago to have Sam this quiet – no smart aleck remarks or sassy retorts. But now it's just unsettling. Sam not wanting to talk? It's beyond freakish.

It's been five days now. Five days and still not one word.

Dean expects the usual routine to go as normal: walk in, open the blinds, squeeze Sam's hand, talk to the wall, help him eat dinner, and back to the motel for another sleepless night. It's so repetitive that Dean has to make his own fun.

"Sammy!" He bellows as he enters the room. "Dude, look" he points to the colorful array of _'get well'_ balloons in his hand.

Sam smiles as wide as can be, all dimples and teeth, and Dean's grin is so broad it kind of hurts his cheeks. He'd buy out the whole stock of balloons just to see Sam smile like that.

"You like 'em, huh? Thought you would. I almost got you flowers but, yeah, imagine what – "

"You're the man from the car."

The words cut through the usual silence, clear and precise, yet they don't make sense. Dean's not sure if he's heard correctly so he stands frozen in motion, hand still gripping the tail ends of the balloons.

"I know your voice" Sam repeats. "I didn't think it really happened but your him, right?" He's slightly bouncing now, sitting up on his knees.

"Sammy?" He says the name like it's a beacon of hope. He's praying that his brother will say something reassuring. He needs some proof that he's still in there somewhere – that it's not just a 'Sam puppet' staring back out at him.

Sam bites his bottom lip a little and quietly laughs.

It's so comforting to hear him laugh – that genuine laugh that's purely his brother's - and Dean chuckles in response, "What's so funny?"

Sam scrunches his nose and shakes his head from side to side, "I don't really like that name." He smiles again with a little giggle looking all of twelve-years-old again.

It's in that moment that Dean can tell his brother's not there, not really at least. It's not the same Sam that was riding in his car a few days ago. The understanding - that this is not his Sam - should tear him apart. It should break him to pieces. It _should_ but it doesn't.

"How," he clears his throat and tries again, "how are you feeling?"

"Not too bad" Sam says happily then frowns. "Head hurts, though. And my hand." He holds up the heavy cast for Dean to see. "What's your name?" He tilts his head to the side and stares up with open curiosity as Dean takes his damaged hand in his.

_It's me. You're brother._ It's like a blow to heart, but Dean pushes it all to the side. "Do you remember, ah, how you got hurt?"

Sam distractedly shakes his head and reaches out to grab a hold of Dean's necklace. "Do you work here?" he continues to finger the little, gold charm at the end of the cord.

"Not exactly." Dean cautiously sits down on the side of the bed. He eyes his brother with a weary attentiveness.

Sam drops his hand back to his side and looks Dean up and down before cozying deeper into the blankets. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" He leans his head back so he can see Sam's face.

"You," he yawns. "You hate hospitals."

"How'd you know?" There's a glimmer of hope that's swiftly crushed.

"I can tell," he simply shrugs. "I don't like it here either."

It seems slightly strange to be talking to someone you've known for eighteen years as if you've only just met for the first time. It feels so wrong and all Dean wants to do is grip Sam's shoulders tight, roughly shake him and demand he comes out to talk. But the look in Sam's eyes – unguarded trust and sheer innocence – he can't do it. He can't help but feel just as attached to this Sam as the last.

"Do you like it when I'm here?" He smirks and waits.

"It's kinda my favorite part of the day ever." Sam smiles brightly and Dean barks out an abrupt laugh.

"Then how come you never talked to me, huh?"

Sam shrugs again and closes his eyes. He shudders a bit and the lines in his forehead crinkle.

"What's wrong?"

"My head hurts," he pouts. "And there's a ringing in my ears. Like a _'bzzzzzz.'_ Like bees."

Dean looks down at his brother's closed eyes with a sad sort of grief. Sam's still there, still inside, but it's like a Sam from a few years back. "I know, buddy" he finds himself saying, ruffling his brother's hair with gentle fingers. "It'll all go away soon."

"M'k." Sam runs a lazy fist over his face, smacks his mouth together and lets his head lull down to rest upon the pillow.

"Hey, Sammy?" He scoots out of bed, tucking him in a bit better.

"Hmm…"

"You're gonna be okay. I promise."

The nurse is waiting by the open door, ready with a change of blankets. "You got him to talk," she says with a raise of the eyebrows.

Dean flashes her a cocky grin.

* *

"So he doesn't remember me, does he? Not at all?"

"It's hard enough for him to remember who _he_ is."

"Does he have any idea at all?"

The doctor shakes his head. "Only what we've been telling him and whatever flashes of scene's he's been seeing. We don't know how long the amnesia is going to last. It could be hours, it could be years, or it could be permanent. He'll have islands of remembering, of course. Flashes. Memories. But I wouldn't count on anything."

"But why was he acting like that, why is he acting like he's a kid again?"

"His condition has led him to more of an adolescent stage. It can range, of course with patients, but there's even a possibility of night terrors, learning defects… Like I said, Mr. Winchester. Everything is going to take time."

"_Only time will tell_. Yeah, yeah, I got it."

"We've set him up with a well-known physical therapist, rehabilitation counselor and neurologist. We also need to talk to you about a live-in nurse."

"No." He laughs. "No way, that won't be necessary. Sam's in my care. He's my responsibility."

"I don't think you understand what this entails. Your brother is going to need a lot of help – a lot of personal attention. You won't be able to leave him alone, you'll have to help him wash, eat – "

"I can do that" he cuts him off. "I've done it before, I can do it again." His smile is wooden but at least there's a flicker of possibility hidden beneath it all. He can take care of Sam. It's the one thing he's good at. "Really sir," he says again, "it's not going to be a problem."

* *

Sam likes the straws with the bendy ends.

He likes to stick them in his mouth and chew on them until they get all crinkly. He also likes the flowers on the brick ledge of the building across the street and the people that stand outside and wash the windows with the big squeegees.

But what Sam likes most of all is the man with the nice voice.

He's been here a lot, the man with the voice, though Sam doesn't exactly know why. What he does know is that he likes listening to him talk. The man says some silly thing sometime and sometimes he even starts to cry. But it's okay. Sam doesn't mind. He likes when he comes to visit.

One day the man even brought him balloons! They're bright and shiny and they make Sam smile. And when Sam smiles, the man smiles, so Sam decides he should smile a lot more. He likes when the man gets crinkles in the corner of his eyes.

He likes him a whole lot.


	4. Chapter 4

"How are you feeling today, Sam?" The doctor taps the side of the bedpost with the clipboard in his hand.

Sam just shrugs. He doesn't like talking to the people in the white coats. Actually, he doesn't like talking much at all.

"I think you might be ready to go home today," the doctor says with a light smile and Sam straightens up higher against his pillow – it's easy to note the enthusiasm that's plainly shining on the boy's face. "You want to go home, Sam?" The doctor is staring at him now, along with the surrounding nurses, all of them apparently waiting for a response.

Sam ducks his head down and fiddles with a stray thread of the white blanket that's somehow unraveled itself and is now stuck on the screw of the bed frame. He's suddenly too frightened to lift his eyes and he fights the urge to cover his head with both his arms. It's scary when everyone's waiting for an answer and he doesn't have any idea what the answer is.

Something catches the doctor's attention and he pivots outside the room.

At the same time familiar foot steps down the hall and a recognizable jingle of keys tells Sam that his favorite person has arrived.

* * "Today's the day, right? Home sweet home?"

"Today's the day," the doctor repeats with a smile. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Absolutely." Dean can't help the broad, beaming smile that lights his lips.

It's been a hard month. Not just for him of course, but for Sam as well and they're finally reaching a positive milestone. The physical therapy seems to be helping the mobility of his brother's hand, but Sam's lack of motor coordination has started to become prevalent only a few days back. The hardest thing seems to be getting Sam to walk upright without tipping over. That alone has been a feat in itself, getting the kid on his feet. You take someone with too long a body and too long legs and it's almost a miracle he's been able to function without tripping over his own feet this long.

"How's he been doing today?" Dean likes to get all the information he can before entering the room. Being prepared sort of makes him feel like he's still in grasp of some control. "Still throwing up?"

"No, not too bad today."

"No?"

"Today's been a good day." The doctor starts to slowly walk towards Sam's room. Dean keeps pace by his side. "We've given him a mild sedative that will help control the nausea and dizziness and we've packed a big enough supply to take home just in case it gets worse again. He hasn't been sleeping well the past few nights as you know - probably uncomfortable and achy from the rehabilitation - but you can give him some aspirin if the pain gets worse. You've already got all the necessary literature and phone numbers for his specialists. Any questions before you're out of here for good?"

"His memory… is it, was it any better today?" Dean asks the same question every day and every day his chest tightens as he waits for an answer.

And just like every other day the doctor sadly shakes his head 'no' and they continue the short walk down the hall and into Sam's room.

And every new day, just as the last, Dean has to plaster a smile on his face like everything's not a mess, like everything's not falling apart in front of his eyes, like his brother is still in there somewhere. He can't let Sam down.

He takes into view the sight of his brother with a sigh before rendering a grin that's put on especially for him. "How's my man doing today?"

"Good," Sam giggles and reaches forward with his arms stretched wide, waiting with anticipation for his annual late-afternoon hug.

Dean awkwardly pats his brother's back as Sam's strong arms squeeze him tight, face pressed hard against his leather jacket. He can feel Sam's smile even through the fabric.

No matter how comforting it may be, it still feels odd to be this openly affectionate with his grown brother. Sam still may be the baby of the family, and sure right now his mindset and behavior sort of fits the whole child-like persona, but the dude's eighteen, and this amount of touching should have stopped ages ago.

"Guess what? Guess what?" Sam lets go of Dean and shimmies back up against the pillows; his eyes are so wide they look like they're about to pop out if he gets any more excited.

"You get to go home today?"

"Hey! How'd you know?"

Dean purses his lips and shrugs, "I can read your mind."

Sam studies him for a minute then his mouth twists to the side. "Liar."

"I can! Watch. I'll prove it to you." Dean places his fingers at his temples and hums some ridiculous tune. "Mmm… You're thinking about… food." He squints an eye open when Sam snorts out a laugh and then goes back to his fake meditation. "You're thinking about… chocolate covered pretzels!"

Sam giggles loud and long, "You cheated!"

"How did I cheat?"

"Whenever you come visit me you always bring chocolate pretzels so you knew I'd be thinking about them." He waits for a second before biting his lip and snickering, "cheater."

"Yeah, well this cheater is ready to take you home. So c'mon," he slaps Sam's leg and tosses the bag of chocolates on his lap. "Let's go, buddy. Time to fly."

* *

It's a pain in the ass getting Sam buckled in. Dean's leg is still busted up in a goddamn cast, so ushering Sam's wheelchair through the hospital doors while fumbling with crutches and a big bag of prescriptions is in the nicest terms, incredibly difficult as fuck.

Sam's still extremely awkward with his damaged hand, so it's Dean's responsibility to buckle him in which doesn't help considering his little brother is an exhausted mess of 6 foot 5.

"Why do you get to take me home?"

Dean shuts the door when Sam's mid sentence but open's the driver's door with an exhaled breath and a, "Because."

"But why? Why you?" Sam waits for a second, blinking in Dean's direction, and then he's off again with another question hot on his tongue. "And how come you won't ever tell me your name? Huh? Why? You know my name, so how come you won't tell me yours?"

Dean waits until their fully reversed out of the parking lot before he glances over at Sam. "Because I know you know it."

"But I don't know it," Sam says with a little laugh and a roll of the eyes. "If I knew it I wouldn't be asking you. Duh." He tries to bend his knees to rest on the edge of the seat, but realizing he'll never fit he slouches down in a sprawl. "You're kinda silly sometimes, you know that?"

He's observing Dean with a steady gaze that's alight with sweet-natured dimples. Dean twitches his mouth into a smile to ease them both and tries not to crack with the knowledge that this person sitting next to him is more or less a stranger.

When Sam turns to gaze out his window, teeth picking at the side of his nail, Dean turns his head to gaze out his own and mumbles in a quiet hush, "You know it, Sammy." He sighs and rubs his tired eyes. "Deep down inside, I know you do."

* * The weirdest thing about Sam's new identity is that he can get spooked at the most random of times. There's no rhyme or reason or connection between the freak-outs, but the first time it happens Dean's checking into the motel.

The building looks like the Hilton compared to most of the crap-hole places they were stuck living in back when dad called the shots. This one actually has doors that can only be opened from inside the building, the walls are freshly painted and there's even a pool out back. It's not perfect but it's good enough.

Dean's paying with Jim Rockford's American Express when he hears the bloodcurdling scream that pierces through the otherwise silent night…

"Sam!" He doesn't even realize he's dropped everything until he's tripping over rolling medicine bottles on the sprint out to the parking lot. "Sam!"

As Dean gets closer to the parked Impala, the screams turn into sobs and he reaches Sam before he makes a dash out of the car.

"Sam! Sam, stop."

The passenger door's flung open and Sam's good hand is clutching the handle in a death grip, he's halfway out of the car and thrashing around like something invisible is putting up a good fight.

"What's wrong? Tell me what's going on." Dean's kneeling at his side, his jean-covered knees are soaking up the water from the rain-washed asphalt; he's gripping Sam's shoulders with both hands, trying to out weigh and out smart his brother's flailing limbs. "Sammy?"

"I don't like motels. I can't… I don't like it." He's calming down, now that Dean's within reach, but he's still shaking his head from side to side.

"I don't understand - "

"Bad stuff happens at motels," he cuts Dean off and finally meets his eyes. "Bad things, creatures, they'll get us here."

Dean has no idea what Sam's going on about but whatever he's remembering it's not good. "Sam, are you thinking of a memory?" 'A hunt' he wants to say but knows that won't help one bit. Sam's still shaking, still sniffling. "Sam? Talk to me, dude." He lifts his brother's face with one hand. "What's going on? A memory? Is it a memory?"

Sam slowly nods. His eyes are glassy with tears.

"What about?"

"Don't wanna talk about it." Sam wipes a hand over his face, tears and snot now covering the sleeve of his shirt. He leans forward and curls into Dean's body. He heaves a shaky sigh against Dean's chest. "'M tired," he yawns.

Dean wants to stroke Sam's hair but his hand can't quite find the motion to do it. He settles for squeezing the back of Sam's neck and then straightens up from his crouched position on the ground.

A few pep talks, a chase of scattered pill bottles across a slippery parking lot, and then they're finally ready to settle down into the room.

The oven is broke, the arm of the sofa is ripped, but it's as close to home as they're ever going to get.

* *

"Come on, dude. Dinnertime. Get your skinny ass over here."

"Can we get pizza?"

"You're telling me you'd rather have pizza than my gourmet cooking?"

"Chicken soup isn't gourmet."

"Campbell's Chicken and Stars. It's delicious and you're eating it." The steam billows up from the tiny plastic bowl. It smells like cold winter nights and summers past when dad was off hunting and Sam needed someone to take care of him. "Get ready to eat every few hours, man. I'm starting to think that pretty soon you're gonna turn to the side and I won't be able to see you. I mean seriously, did they even feed you at that hospital?"

"Yeah," Sam giggles and unsteadily wobbles from the bed to the small kitchenette table. He sits down with a plop. "You know I eat. I always eat your pretzels." He grabs the spoon that Dean offers and starts poking at the little star noodles that float around the sides.

"You feeling okay?" Dean sets a glass of milk in front of Sam before sitting down himself.

Sam slurps up a spoonful. "Mm-hmm."

"You sure?"

"Can I ask you a question?" The spoon suddenly clatters to the table.

Dean takes a moment to steady himself; questions from Sam were never a good thing. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

"There was a… fire, right? Like a really bad fire?"

The conversation has suddenly turned. Just like that, the truth comes tumbling out. There's no way Sam's talking about the car crash they were recently in, at least then there was no fire. No, there's only one thing Sam can possibly be referring to and it has the acid in Dean's throat burning a deep, deep hole. "Yeah, Sam," Dean hears himself saying in a gruff whisper. "There was a fire."

"What happened? Were you there too? You and me?"

"Eat your soup, Sam."

"But – "

"Soup."

It doesn't seem right, keeping Sam in the dark when he's already so far in the dark to begin with. But he can't do it. He can't find the strength to tell Sam the truth about their mom, or about their dad, about hunting. That's one thing he'll never tell Sam about: hunting. And in that twisted way, it's like Sam's finally got his shot at a normal life, he's finally got what he's always wanted. Normalcy.

Talk about being fate's bitch. You lose your memory but you gain your preferred life.

Sam begrudgingly picks his spoon up and goes back to playing around with the tiny noodles. And like that the conversation is over.

* *

"Time for bed, before you fall asleep at the table."

Sam's eyes are already drooping shut as he follows Dean out to the bedroom area. Things feel so routine yet so cumbersome. It's Sam but it's not Sam. It's just another night in another motel room, but it's all so foreign. He's babysitting a full-grown man.

"Okay, so… Pajamas, brush your teeth, then bed. Oh, and make sure you go to the bathroom before you hit the sheets."

"Hey!" Sam's eyes are narrowed and he's wearing an expression that clearly says he's not amused. "I'm not a little baby." He grabs the pink toothbrush off the floral bedspread and tries his best to storm off towards the bathroom. "I know how to do things myself!"

Dean makes a mental note that Sam grabbed the right one. He also files away in his memory that staying up past ten o'clock makes Sam really crabby. "Sorry," he mumbles when the bathroom door shuts with a slam. "Just thought I'd help."

* *

In the middle of the night Dean hears a crash. The lamp teeters off the nightstand and shatters to the floor between the two beds.

"Sam?" His fingers coil around the base of the knife under his pillow, but the sound of his brother's big padded feet against the rough carpet tells him there's nothing to fear, there's no threat. "Sam? What's wrong?" The kid doesn't answer so Dean presses on. "Is your hand aching again? Do you need some aspirin?"

"I'm scared," Sam whispers. His voice sounds choked and raspy.

"What?"

"Can I sleep with you?" Sam starts to take a step forward but Dean holds out a stalling hand against his brother's stomach.

"Watch out for the broken glass." He grabs the flashlight that he keeps to the side of the bed out of habit and lights a pathway around the broken pieces. "Why didn't you just wake me up? Why'd you knock over the lamp?"

"I tried, but then I fell."

"Sammy."

"I don't' want to be alone."

"You're not alone. I'm right here, dude. Two feet away. Go back to bed."

"Please? Can't I just sleep in your bed? I promise, just tonight."

There's a long pause in which Dean's pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Please?"

"Fine," he finally mutters. He throws the sheets back and scoots over to give Sam enough room to crawl in. "Now tell me," he says once Sam's laid down next to him. "Why are you scared?" He covers them both with the thin comforter and tries to make as much room as possible for the both of them in the narrow space.

"Nightmare," Sam says, all quiet and shaky.

"Nightmare's can't hurt you, you know that." He knows Sam's pouting at him even though he can't see it. "It's okay, I promise. Try to get back to sleep." He starts to roll over to face the wall but Sam grips him hard.

"No!" The word is bellowed out and soon Sam's gripping Dean with panicking hands. "Stay here. Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere." Dean can hear his brother's voice start to quiver; his breath is starting to hitch. "Hey, calm down. Shh… shh… Sam, it's okay. It's okay, Sammy, I'm not going anywhere."

"Dee." It's a whisper, a mumble against the pillow, but to Dean' ears it's like a beckoned prayer. "Dee," he repeats again with a sleepy slur and his head lulls down heavier on the pillow while his clenched fists relax on Dean's chest.

'Dee.' The same thing Sam used to call him when he was too little to sound his name out fully.

Even in the dead of night, half asleep, it's as if a flame of hope sparks to life - like the dim flicker of a slow-burning candle has lit the pathway to possibility. Sam's not gone. He's still there.

Dean knows that he's in there somewhere – buried somewhere deep, deep inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam doesn't remember hunting. The life that was once theirs, the life that was once the main reason Sam left, is gone. It's vanished as if it had never existed in the first place. Sometimes the only reason Dean knows that that life once existed for sure – that it wasn't all some wacked out dream - is in the little habits that manifest. Not _his_, but _Sam's_

Salt is a thing Sam won't go near. It's like the tiny shakers on the countertop that occupy the kitchen area are full of some evil element. Even the taste of salty food sometimes throws Sam into a silent somber mood, has him off in some silent world Dean can't tap in to.

The doors must always be locked – that's one thing that gets checked over and over again. "The doors!" Sam will urgently shout in the middle of a movie or during the middle of the night or simply in the middle of a conversation and everything will halt and Dean will grab Sam's hand, entwining their fingers like he would when they were little, and they'll both walk over to the wall of windows making sure the latches are locked for the fifth or sixth time that day. Sam will nod his approval, stubborn chin set, and then he'll smile down at Dean and go back to were they'd left off.

The blinds stay shut and the windows are never opened. A useless "trip wire" made from random pieces of string found in a nightstand drawer serves as a pointless security measure…

It would be funny, actually, to look around and see how boarded up they were inside the tiny room with all the insignificant precautions that wouldn't help a damn if some demon were trying to break in. It would be funny if it weren't Sam.

But it _is_ Sam and seeing his kid brother that worried that someone, _something_, could possibly be after him, after them both, causes Dean as much discomfort as his brother. What would be after them, who the hell knows? The safety rituals calm Sam down and if Sam is calm, Dean can be calm too.

After a few days in their newfound "home," a sort of routine has been established. Not to say that each day is the same as the last, for Sam's moods and responses to things range in the extreme, Dean had almost forgotten the feel of being together like it was before it all went to hell. Before Sam couldn't even stand the sight of Dad and fighting was just another way to get through the day.

Dean often wonders what it would have been like if Sam didn't hurt his head, if he remembered everything, if he was still whole and himself. After the car ride ended, after the fuel ran out and the Impala couldn't push on any further, after Dean ran out of excuses, when Sam made it to Stanford … would they have stayed brothers? Would they have even talked again? Sam would be pissed, sure, which is one selfish reason why Dean's secretly grateful for the accident. He let Sam leave once, there's no way he can bare it again.

It's ten past noon, and like clockwork, Sam's curled up asleep on the ugly plaid couch – same as the day before. They've only just finished breakfast but Sam is fast asleep, his long legs hanging awkwardly over the armrest of the sofa even though his torso is curled up as tight as the tiny space allows. Dean walks over, drapes a spare sheet across his brother's body and him breathe before heading back into the kitchen. The local newspaper's classified section circled and highlighted sitting opened on the tabletop greets his return.

Of course things can't be rushed. For now Dean can't even imagine leaving his brother alone for five minutes to run out and get a case of beer, but once Sam can be trusted enough to function on his own for a couple of hours a day, a job is the first thing on Dean's list of priorities. More money means better food, a better place to live, and a new chance at an honest life - it's all Sam deserves and more.

"Dee?" Sam lifts his head and looks around, messy hair tousled from sleep. His eyes seek out Dean's figure and once found, a little moan escapes his lips and he flops his head back down against the hard cushion. Ever since Sam's mumbled the nickname the first night back from the hospital it's stuck like glue. Sam never asks if it's correct and Dean never tells him otherwise.

"What's wrong, Sam?" Dean squats down so he's more or less eye level with his brother. His hand feels for any hint of fever but luckily there's no threat of heat. "Feelin' sick again, buddy?" The pain seems to ebb and flow with Sam, each hour different from the next, each day a different pain in a different place – apart from the headaches, which always seem constant.

"Tummy ache," Sam mutters in such little-boy disdain. He glares at his stomach as if he can guilt it into feeling better.

Dean tries not to laugh at the look on Sam's face – the flash of his brother all five-years-old again and cooped up in bed watching Batman flitters across his mind. The memory hits him with a flutter of devotion. It's an odd mix of adoration, to peer upon an eighteen-year-old whose temperament seems younger than elementary school age, yet you know there's still a grown man buried deep inside.

Dean places a tender hand on top of Sam's head and soothes back the worry lines. "How about some Pepto, dude?"

But now Sam's looking at him with a look of amused disgust – nose scrunched up, eyes un-impressed, mouth pursed – and the look is so clearly _Sam_, so clearly his Sammy from a few months ago that Dean has to look away before the feeling consumes him. Who would have thought it was possible to feel such hope and devastating loss simultaneously?

A few cherry flavored antacids and a little tummy rub later and Sam's back passed out in dream world. Then Dean's back to scanning the newspaper for a mediocre job with a piss poor pay wage. Any resemblance of a hunt sends Dean's skipping to the next page of the paper. Each day seems to get easier. Ignoring possible hunts almost becomes second nature.

* *

Sam thinks the worse parts of the day are when he has to shut his eyes.

It's not like in the daytime or when he's not asleep where he can pretend he's not alone. But when he shuts his eyes everything gets jumbled. There are funny pictures, sometimes-silly looking creatures and crazy rooms with scary people.

Then there are a lot of things that really don't make sense.

Fire and heat. Screams, tears, graves, _lots_ of graves. It's scary. It's horrible. But it's okay. It's okay when Sam wakes up tangled in the sheets, sweating, crying in the too-big room when the lights are all off and it's dark outside, it's okay because Dee is there. And Dee is safe. He makes it safe. He won't let anything bad happen 'cause he says so.

"Besides," Sam thinks with a proud grin, "the trip-wire won't let anyone in. Dee even said so himself."

* *

Every night is spent with Sam. Every single night, side-by-side, sharing each other's air. Even the nights when Sam starts out in the other bed, an hour or two later and he'll be crawling under the covers, snuggling up against Dean's side – his larger body covering Dean like a third blanket.

Unabashedly open and sweetly sincere, Sam will declare he's scared of the dark and Dean will nod understandingly, no jokes, no jabs of insult, just lets Sam squeeze in next to him. It's so well rehearsed, so them from back in the day. He remembers Sam wearing footy pajamas and needing hot milk to fall asleep. Dad was always loudly snoring. Dean would imitate him and they'd both end up in giggles.

"Hey, Dee?" Sam asks one night when he's snuggled against Dean's chest, arm hugging him like he's a giant teddy bear. "Remember that one time you made chicken soup for me? The one with the little stars?"

"That was a few days ago, Sammy."

"It was?"

"Yup."

"Oh."

"Why?"

"Was the red bike yesterday then too?"

"What red bike?"

"You showed me how to ride it without the extra wheels. And then we got ice cream." He smiles a little, almost to himself, and twists his fingers in the fabric of Dean's t-shirt.

"That was a long time again, man." Dean brushes the bangs back from Sam's forehead and softly unclenches Sam's hand from his shirt. "But you're right, it was a red bike." He feels Sam tuck in a bit closer and hesitates a moment before his body relaxes. "Um, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"How come you remember me? I mean, just me and no one else?"

Sam shrugs his shoulders against Dean's body. "I dunno," he finally says after a wide yawn. "You're the only one that stands out above the rest. Your face is always there. You're always there in my head."

"… Do you remember who you are? Do you remember anything else?"

"I'm Sam." His voice wavers slightly as if he's still a little unsure. "I'm… I'm Sammy," he says a little more forcefully this time. "I'm Sammy and you're my Dee. I know we were little together. I know I ran far away but you came and got me. I know you like your car and I know you like me too. I know that it's important to stay safe." He takes a breath; his voice barely above a whisper. "And I know that I don't have a mommy."

The last sentence catches Dean off-guard and before he knows it he finds himself saying, "I don't have a mommy either."

"It's okay," Sam says in the simplest, most self-assured voice. "We got each other."

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, turns his head to the side. "Go to sleep, Sam." His gruff whisper gets cut short and he clears his throat to mask the pain. He gently removes the thumb Sam has put in his mouth and rearranges his position.

* *

It's hard to deal with someone that's sometimes 18 and sometimes 6.

His kid brother could be rambling about Star Wars and whatever cartoon is on at the moment one minute and then suddenly he's answering Dean's, _"That's not funny, Sam,"_ with a, "_I'm not laughing, Dee"_ – all cranky and sarcastic. It's those moments that convince Dean that all it will take is time and Sam-from-before will come back to him.

It's an odd sort of balance, sharing the overwhelming love he has for the old Sam and well as the new. He loves them both, is beginning to love them both equally, even, and at times, when the therapist tells Dean that, _"Sam's memory is starting to recover a little. Extremely slowly but it's coming back,"_ it strangely makes Dean want to plug his ears like a toddler and go _la la la can't hear you_ because Sam's amnesia is a second chance to make things better between them.

If Sam can't remember, he can't leave.

It's that selfish thought that keeps Dean in the in-between.

* *

Sam thinks that sometimes he sees flashes of the man, of Dee. They come and go like little starbursts of insight, but they never converge, they never make sense. They're just little pieces, ripped pages of random stories, all starring the same person. Dee.

Dee in a black car.

Dee with a big knife.

Dee with a pretty girl.

Dee sleeping next to him.

It doesn't really matter that he doesn't know who Dee is, 'cause the bits and pieces he _does_ remember assure him that there's enough love between the two of them that he can trust Dee without question.

If it were possible, Sam would like to string the stories together to make one big chapter book to keep forever. But he can't. His brain doesn't work that way anymore. In a blink, the stories vanish the same as they did the day before, and all Sam's left with is a few flashes of pictures in his mind that he holds onto tightly.

* *

Every three days Dean tries to take Sam to _Good Shepard Memorial_ for just-in-case examinations and rehabilitation.

This is when Sam is most unresponsive. The child-like glee, the dimpled smiles, the endless chatter – it all washes away on days when Sam has to see the doctors. One reason, most surely, is because of sheer exhaustion. The other reason being, Sam doesn't like leaving the motel. It's hard enough to even get him in the car. Dean even tried to bribe him once with a movie and junk food just to get him out of the motel, but Sam frantically shook his head, eyes filled with fear, and he sought the safety of the couch.

So after a long day spent with the physical therapist, Dean doesn't take it to heart when Sam silently shuts himself off from the world and disappears under a blanket in a curled up heap on the sofa after the drive back to the room.

Instead, Dean sits cross-legged on the bed, tossing his cell phone from one hand to the other. Right now Dean wishes the old Sam was here. He would have advice on what to do. He'd know the answer. The question, of course, is whether to try calling Dad or not. Sure, their father hadn't even attempted to get a hold of either of them (Dean assumed he was still pissed at them both for leaving), but Dean knows he has to let their Dad know about Sam's situation.

His fingers _tap tap_ on the numbered buttons in a sporadic staccato but he can't bring himself to actually dial. He tosses the cell over his shoulder and it bounces on the mattress a little before flying off and smacking against the wall with a _crunch_. Before Dean can swear about the broken phone, Sam starts yelling at full volume.

Dean bounds across to the couch and he's more than panicking from Sam's fit, thrusting the blankets off his brother's head and forcing him to sit up.

"Sam! Sammy. Wake up. Wake up, man." His voice is softly assertive but his hands grip Sam's shoulder hard, thumbs squeezing muscles tight, shaking, prodding, "Sam, wake up."

Sam's eyes fly open, wide and not focused on anything, just searching, searching and then finally steadying on green-twinkle eyes. _"Dee," _he moans into a heartbreaking sob and he's clutching Dean close, powerfully hard, shaking breaths heaving without break.

"Shh…"

Sam's sobs continue, mouth pressed against Dean's collar.

"Just a nightmare, Sam. You're okay."

"Fire," he pants, "so hot. It hurts. _It hurts, Dee."_

"What hurts, Sammy?" He places a hand on each side of his brother's face and pushes him back a bit to examine his expression.

"Don't know," Sam mumbles, pouts, then shoves Dean's hands away with strong-willed force so he can clutch him close again, tucking his head under Dean's chin.

Dean's hand moves down to the couch, next to Sam's thigh to steady his crouched position on the floor; but when his hand brushes against the rough fabric of the couch cushion, what he feels is _warm wetness_. His hand moves to Sam's light-gray sweatpants, which are soaked all the way through, so he pulls back the blankets and sheets and tosses them to the floor. Sam's eyes dart down along with Dean's to the circular patch of dark gray material that covers his lap and thighs.

Dean places his palm to his forehead and for a minute he doesn't know what to do. Sam's looking at him, back down at his pants, and back up at him – eyes filling with tears, cheeks tinted pink, bottom lip turned downwards, and all Dean can think to do is slap on a fake smile.

"It's okay, buddy," he says. "Just an accident." His heart doesn't just break; it crumbles, at the sight of his teenaged brother in a pair of urine-soaked pants. "Come on, big guy, let's get you into some dry clothes." He ignores Sam's whimper, ignores the wet clothes, ignores everything, just hugs his body close to his brother's frame and lifts him up and off the couch. "Must have been one hell of a nightmare," he says with fake bravado.

"Uh-huh," is all that Sam can mumble. He wipes his eyes with a fisted hand and lets Dean undress him without protest.

* *

It isn't until later that night when they're once again squished together in the tiny bed that Dean decides to question Sam. "So," he nudges him, "feel like tellin' me what that nightmare was all about earlier?"

"What nightmare?" Sam asks, all innocent and oblivious.

"_Sam."_

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Well that's too bad."

Sam huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes. "Fine. I'll tell you." He lifts himself up on his knees. "I was at this really big place," he begins, complete with hand gestures and all. "It was far, far away from here. And there was this guy. He was… scary. I didn't like him. I, I tried to find you, but you weren't there. This man, he had these… yellow-eyes, and he was telling me something. There was… fire, and… lots and lots of fire. And you weren't there. And it was all my fault."

"Why was it your fault, Sam?"

"'Cause I left you. I ran away."

Dean brushes his hand up Sam's broad back; the heat of his body burns under his fingertips. He can't stop the natural motion of touching, can't convince himself to stop. "But it's not real, Sam," he says to the darkness. "You ran away, sure, but I came and got you, remember? I brought you home."

"You brought me home," Sam repeats with conviction and copies Dean's movement by slipping his hand under the material and brushing his own fingers up his brother's smooth chest.

Dean's hips automatically jerk at the contact, the love of this closeness, the softness of his brother's hand caressing his skin. But the bile still rises in his throat, the guilt of taking advantage, the disgust at himself for what he's thinking…

But he lets Sam touch him, lets Sam pet him. He lets Sam make wet, innocent smudges on his collarbone with a childlike naivete. He lets Sam sleep atop him all night. He lets himself smell Sam's shower-dampen hair. He lets his hands wander to his brother's hips. He let's himself make innocent kisses back. He doesn't stop it because he can't. He doesn't stop it because he doesn't want to.

When it comes to his brother, he'll never have the strength of will to push him away. Sam nestles into every part of him that's still good. He always has. And there's no stopping him now.


	6. Chapter 6

"Happy Meals!" Dean's booming voice ricochets off the tiny walls of the motel as he makes his way into the room, greasy paper bags in hand.

Luckily the McDonalds across the way had as fast of service as they promised. It wasn't really in Dean's heart to jump in the Impala and leave Sam alone in the room, but lately there just wasn't a choice. Sam refused to venture out and Dean was starting to go stir crazy. They'd had no real food for weeks and by this point, canned soup really wasn't cutting it. Besides, as much as he hated to admit it, Sam needed to start doing things on his own. Sam was getting better and sooner rather than later he'd have to live life like a real adult – away from Dean, away from this cramped room.

He was going to get better. Dean knew it.

Sam was getting better at walking upright without help. It was a rare thing when he needed a help staying steady on his legs. The nightmares had lessened, and he seldomly needed to seek out the comfort of Dean's body to sleep peacefully. His hand, however, was still badly damaged; though, with no real need to write or drive since Dean was taking care of mostly everything, it hadn't been much of a determent. Corrective surgeries were going to be held off until a later date. _'Only one thing at a time,' _Dean thinks, and right now, helping his brother get his memory back was his only priority.

Dean could almost feel Sam's relieved sigh when he opened the door. The room smelled faintly of Sam's girly strawberry shampoo that he insisted Dean buy and last night's burnt bag of popcorn. The place is a mess, has been for days now, but Dean still makes sure to step over the neatly placed salt line. It's not that they have to worry about unwelcome, supernatural guests, but it pleases Sam so the salt line stays.

"Dee!" Sam slams into his brother's chest in a rib-cracking embrace, longer frame crushing the bags that are hugged to Dean's waist. "I did good right? I did good?" He takes the drinks out of Dean's hand and impatiently crams one of the straws in his mouth.

"Slow down, man," Dean chuckles

After a few giant gulps Sam starts talking again – full speed, "When you left I was real good. Didn't open the door, nothin'. Just like you told me to. I even made the bed!" Sam beams proudly at the messy lump of sheets under the neatly laid out bedspread.

"Nicely done, dude." Dean flashes a smile, ruffles his brother's hair and lets Sam lead him further into the room.

Saturdays are always the most enjoyable for both of them. No hospital visits or therapy appointments. No cognition tests or nurses with needles, which means Sam is in full Sam-at-twelve-years-old mode – cheerful and talkative and hungry enough to devour anything in sight.

They're sitting on the floor shoveling burgers into their mouths like it's the first bite of edible food they've had in weeks. Their backs are pressed against the retro couch and some horrible game show plays almost inaudibly in the background – thanks to the busted reception and the bent antenna.

As Dean makes a grab for his quarter-pounder, extra cheese and onions dripping off the sides; he feels his brothers left hand slip into his right, strong thumb gently stroking the back of his own palm.

Sam's face is turned to the television set but his body inches closer to Dean's side, his hand sweetly gripping his brother's.

It's been two months since the car crash, five weeks since they've been in the _Sunshine Villa _motel, and Sam's new thing is holding hands.

The gesture doesn't catch Dean by surprise. Along with the lazy snuggling and the sloppy kisses on the cheek, holding hands has become a common thing - kind of a reach out for comfort.

Sam is crunching happily on some greasy fries, mouth sticky in the corners with ketchup, and his thumb still strokes Dean's hand. He squeezes their fingers together as if wanting a response and when Dean doesn't acknowledge him, Sam leans in closer and kisses his cheek.

The kiss is wet, pops with a _'smack'_ - little-kid demeanor written all over it - yet it's different this time; there's an assertive invitation buried underneath the gesture. Sam's lingering by Dean's face, nose still pressed to the curve of his cheek.

Dean looks down and Sam is staring at him with pleading eyes, signature pout, and God save him, Dean gives in and plants a soft kiss in return on the apple of his brother's cheek.

It must be satisfying enough, because after a smile Sam goes back to watching the game show and crams a few more fries in his mouth.

*

Sundays suck.

Forget the easy going Sam that giggles at everything. Come Sunday and it's like the Sam of yesterday only exists in Dean's memory.

Sundays mean therapy sessions with Dr. Kurtz.

Wrestling his bigger little brother into the passenger side of the Impala is a struggle. Getting him _out_ of the damn car is even worse.

By the time noon rolls around, just as the office is starting to wonder whether or not Mr. Winchester missed his 11:30 appointment, the door to the building slams open and Dean thrusts Sam into the doctor's office with a grunt. He makes his way towards the waiting room, trying his best to ignore Sam's attempt at weaseling his way out of the appointment.

*

Sam hates Sundays.

He hates them more than anything. Even more than when Dean leaves him alone in the room or when he has to get into the big black car.

Sam doesn't like to talk to the man with the ugly office. He smells like musk and has scary pictures on the wall and Sam can't stop staring at the nose hairs that stick out in every direction.

"So, Sam," the doctor's voice sounds like a monotone hum. "How are we feeling today?"

"… Fine." Sam shifts uncomfortably in the hard-backed leather chair. "Why do I have to be here?"

"We're trying to help you remember who you are."

"Can Dee come in and sit with me?"

"We've already talking about this last session, Samuel. These appointments need to be one-on-one so we can help you recall memories without outside influence. Now, tell me, any new pictures in your head? Anything new you want to talk about?"

"Umm…" Sam glances at the clock on the wall; 50 minutes to go. _Oh man._ "Well," he starts, "all the pictures in my head are… fuzzy. But, um, there's Dee." He thinks back to some of the more recent dreams he's had and hesitates before adding, "sometimes scary things too."

The man tilts his head with added interest. "Why are they scary, Sam?"

"They're bad things – bad _people_, or um, creatures." It's hard to talk about the bad recollections, but Sam takes a breath and continues on. "They're always bad, and me and Dee and this other man, we need to stop them. We do stop them. Sometimes."

"Does _Dee_ ever scare you? Does he ever hurt you, Sam?"

"What? No!" Sam narrows his eyes towards the man in the chair to show his disgust at the question. His Dee? Scary? Hurt him? What a stupid question to ask. "No," Sam shakes his head fervently. "No, Dee's always there to stop the scary things. He protects me. Always."

"What do you know about Dee, Sam?"

The question catches him off guard so he stumbles a little with the words. "… What do you mean?"

"What do you remember about him? What memories can you recall?"

"I don't know."

"Just try."

"I don't know what's real and what's not."

"Maybe we should try a little hypnotherapy today - "

"NO!" Sam just about bolts from his seat. "No way!" He hates the hypnotherapy. Maybe even more than Sundays.

"Its okay, Sam. We don't have to. But we do need you to try to remember some things."

Sam huffs a sigh and folds his arms across his chest. "Don't wanna," he mumbles. He'd rather do anything than have to think about the horrible dreams he dreamt last night.

"These _monsters_," the doctor presses on, "what do they look like?"

Sam curls closer in on himself, mouth shut.

The doctor sighs, probably reaching his limit of pleading, and decides to let Sam run the session. "Just tell me anything you want to, then."

"Well," Sam purses his lips in thought. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

Sam wiggles a little in the chair to readjust the position of his legs. He takes a deep breath and tries his best to be brave. "How can you tell if someone likes you?"

The doctor looks slightly confused. "I don't'…."

"If you like someone," Sam cuts him off, "how can you tell if they like you back?" He leans on the edge of the seat, head resting on his palm as if in the middle of a serious debate. The doctor doesn't respond right away so Sam continues on. "If they love you, they like you, right?"

"Yes, I suppose that's correct."

"And if I like him and he likes me then we can kiss on the mouth, right? Like grown-up people?"

"Sam, is there someone you'd like to talk about?" Dr. Kurtz tilts his head and scribbles something on he pad of paper on his desk. "Are we talking about _Dee_, Sam?"

Sam's stomach plummets to the floor. "…I, uh, umm, I… I have to go to the bathroom," he blurts out. Quickly he gets to his feet and runs towards the hallway, shutting the door loudly behind him.

The next twenty minutes are spent in the corner stall with the drippy toilet. He'd rather hide out here than talk to nosey Dr. Kurtz. _'What a nosey jerk. Dr. Kurtz is a jerk_,' he rhymes in his head with a smirk.

He'd rather spend the rest of the appointment camping out in the smelly bathroom than have to talk about monsters and demons. _'Demons,'_ Sam thinks and a flash of yellow eyes from his past nightmare makes him shudder.

He'd rather not talk about Dee or about his feelings or about any of that.

He'd rather be with Dee. He'd rather be at home in the messy room sharing Dee's bed. He'd rather be anywhere but here facing the scary pictures in his head.

*

Why is it that doctor office waiting rooms have the most out-of-date magazine selection known to mankind? That's what Dean wants to know. Why is he looking at some _People_ magazines from way back 2002 that look like they've been ripped to shreds by rabid dogs? Seriously.

When the door to the doctor's room swings open Dean braces himself for a sulking, angry, unresponsive Sammy. Which is why it's most surprising when Sam saunters over, cheerfully upbeat with a bounce in his step.

"Good session today, kiddo?"

Sam scrunches his nose at the question and shies away from the group of nurses that pass by. "Hey Dee?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to ask you a question."

"Shoot."

Sam grabs Dean's hand. He holds it with two of his own and plays with the solid band of silver wrapped around his brother's finger. "Dee?"

"Uh huh?" Dean doesn't really flinch at the touch – he doesn't even drop his hand from Sam's grasp. Instead he smiles. He smiles because of all the progress his kid brother has made. "What's your question, dude?"

"Do you love me?" The words are blurted out just like that. He trips a little on Dean's boots when his brother's bad leg stumbles over the doorway.

"What?" Dean turns to face him, all creased forehead and unnecessary sharp tone.

"Just wanna know if you love me," Sam mumbles with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Well, yeah... I mean I guess. Why are you asking me that?"

Sam smiles to himself and ducks his head down low. "Nothin'," he giggles. "Don't worry about it."

"What's so funny?"

"Nothin'."

As they round the corner to the front of the Impala, Dean can't help but notice Sam is staring at his lips.

What's even worse is he licks his own lips in response.

*

That night when they're getting ready for bed, Sam declares that they should get a puppy.

"Absolutely not," Dean protests. "Na-ah."

"Awe, come on. Please?"

"No way in hell. I'm not dealing with a biting, chewing, peeing puppy and _you._ No way, Sammy. Forget it." Mouth frothy with fluoride and toothpaste, Dean spits into the sink and reaches for the towel. Sam follows suit, spits in the sink and lays his toothbrush to the side of the blue one.

"What about a fish? A fish doesn't bite. Or pee. Well, not _really_."

"You seriously want a goldfish?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"K, well _maybe_ then."

"K," Sam says and cleans off his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. "Night, Dee," Sam says with easeful happiness and lightly kisses Dean's cheek before leaving the bathroom to turn back the covers on his own bed.

Dean stands in the light of the bathroom for a moment watching the precise way his brother uses his good hand to unroll the blankets. He wipes Sam's minty spit off his cheek and tries to make sense of the affection, of why Sam's so touchy-feely with him lately. He reasons that it's just this mindset Sam is in – that he's little again. When Sam _was _actually little, maybe four or five, he'd kiss Dean all the time – much to the displeasure of their father.

Sam would be in his favorite footie pajamas – Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, (Donatello in particular printed fondly on the front) - and he'd curl up in Dean's lap for the last few minutes before bedtime. Dad would be turning down the sheets getting Sam's bed ready and Sam would be snuggling up against his brother's chest, pecking little kisses around his face. _'Sammy, stop that,' _their dad would gripe from the other room. _'You're getting too old for that. You both are.' _But Dean would just roll his eyes and let Sam cozy up against his side. John would say, _'Bed. Now.' _and Sam would kiss Dean one last time and hop off his lap and scurry in to the other room.

'_We've always been close,' _Dean thinks as he glances at Sam's grown-up frame buried underneath the covers. _'That's all this is.' _He shakes the discomfort free of his thoughts and gets into his own bed after switching off the light.

He tries his best not to think about how lonely it feels with Sam not curled up against his side and lets the feeling of exhaustion overcome him.

*

It's the sound of thrashing sheets that wake Dean up, not the muffled screams.

It's frantic and terrifying the movement of his brother's body when one of those horrible nightmares takes over.

The sheets tangle around his torso and it takes all of Dean's strength to hold Sam in place, dodging the flailing limbs and jerking head.

"Sam!" Dean harshly whispers. "Sammy!"

"Mmmm…" It's a moan that comes from Sam's lips – a pained, desperate moan – but slowly his eyes open and reality seeps through to save him from his disturbing subconscious.

"Scoot over, Sasquatch," Dean nudges him with a warm hand and settles in beside him, stomach pressed to back.

Sam quietly whimpers, parts of the night terror still vivid in his mind, but Dean soothes it away with a comforting hand rubbing gently against his brother's chest.

It's like this that they finally ebb into a peaceful slumber.

Dean would never admit it out loud, but after knowing this type of comfort, he'd never be able to fall asleep any other way.

*

Sam closes his eyes after brushing his teeth and at first the dream starts off good.

He's a little kid and so is Dee. They're in a tiny room, not unlike the one they live in now, and Sam is situated on the floor between Dee's legs, pressed against the sofa.

They're watching a cartoon; there are silly people in funny costumes and Sam knows that whatever is playing he's transfixed.

Dee reaches down, almost unconsciously, eyes still set on the cartoon, and his hand twirls in Sam's hair, fingers massaging the thick locks.

Sam knows he's dreaming, knows it's a distorted memory, but it still feels good. It feels so good to have Dee's hands in his hair that he leans back and slouches down, serene smile planted on his face.

Dee looks down, all of twelve years old, and gives a knowing wink as his fingers work their magic, dancing around Sam's hair.

Sam hears himself say, _'I like that,'_ and Dee laughs, _'I know,'_ and from there the dream-memory starts to get fuzzy.

A man – harsh in tone, yet lovingly familiar all the same – tells Dean to _'knock it off,'_ and suddenly the fantasy dream takes a sharp right turn and the fire that devoured all of Sam's dreams in the past leaps up to destroy this one as well.

The fire burns to blazingly hot, and the flashes of creatures – horrible, disgusting animals and people – flicker through his mind like a film reel.

And that's when the screaming starts.

And that's when Dee comes to save him from his nightmares and its obvious Dee needs the contact just as much as Sam needs him.

And that's when it all finally starts to make sense: Sam needs Dee just as much as Dee needs him.

It makes Sam tingle, makes him want to giggle because he loves Dee _so much_ and Dee said he loves him too. He wants to touch Dee, wants to reach around and kiss him like grown-ups do, but Dee's arm is slung around his waist too tight.

'_Tomorrow,'_ he smiles and falls into an undisturbed sleep.

*

Its early morning. Like, early the-sun-is-not-even-up-yet early, which means it's totally way too early to be awake.

It takes a second for Dean to regain his bearings – where he's at, who he's with, why he's up… 'Cause lord knows he wouldn't be up this goddamn early on his own. Something must've roused him from sleep.

But then it clicks and his brain starts to slowly work again and he kind of gasps when something soft, supple, and warm begins attacking his lips in little kisses. Now he's kind of more than confused because, well hell, he went to sleep next to Sam didn't he? And this person attacking his mouth is…

Oh wait.

Oh fuck.

_Sam. _

Jesus Christ.

His little brother is devouring his mouth like a fucking remora. Messy wetness and assured confidence he's biting and sucking greedily like he just can't get enough.

'Mmm…' Sam moans happily, and now Dean is starting to get hard.Morning wood and _Christ_ his traitorous body is actually responding, hips jerk against Sam's stomach wanting more friction to brush up against.

Sam releases Dean's mouth and instead opts for licking, _lapping, _at his lips. Dean's eyes squint open and he moans out, "What'reya doin'?" all groggy and ill tempered with tiredness.

Sam's quiet giggle feels obnoxiously breathy against his ear and Dean swats him away.

"Kissing. I'm kissing you." Sam says smiling straight into his brother's stare. He then goes back to pressing their mouths together (once, twice, three times…)

"Stop!" Dean sounds stronger than he feels. He's saying the words but his head is leaning up to the touch. His heart beats fast, loud, thumps, _bangs,_ against his chest. He musters up all his will power and turns his face to the side when Sam tries to draw their lips together once more. "Stop," Dean repeats into the pillow. "Sam, I said stop. Knock it off." He tries to roll off the bed but struggles against Sam's weight.

"Why?" Sam asks with narrowed eyes. "I don't wanna. It's fun." It's the sheer example of his brother's stubborn will that the kid actually turns his mouth back to his without permission, partially smacking the side of his Dean's cheek. "See?" Sam smiles with his tongue between his teeth. "Turn your face, Dee," he commands, "I can't find your mouth when it's all squished by the pillow."

"Sam, I said stop." Dean voice is sharp and ringing with finality. "Get off me."

"And I said I don't wanna," Sam combats, just as loud and full of snark.

But it doesn't matter what Sam is saying, doesn't matter if he sounds like his old self, because Dean refuses to listen; he unceremoniously shoves his kid brother off his body and heatedly makes his way to the bathroom. He storms across the room as if he's pissed at the world for simply spinning. He's furious, he's fuming, and he's so fucking hard it hurts.

He swiftly bangs the door shut behind him and sinks down to the chipped linoleum. His heart is beating so painfully fast, the content of the bathroom – the sink, the shower, and the dirty pile of towels – spins like a cyclone in front of his eyes. He clenches his stomach, wipes the sweat from his brow and flops over the side of the tub to let the running water from the faucet wash over his nerves.

'_I'm panicking,'_ he realizes. _'I'm freaking the fuck out. Fucking calm down. Dean. Get a hold of yourself. Jesus."_

It's not that Sam hadn't ever kissed him before. But it was never exactly on the mouth like that, never with intention. Sam never articulated before on what exactly he was doing, that it was _fun_ for him to taste his brother's lips.

And it's not that Dean is turned off by the idea. But that's just it. He's not turned off. He's _turned on. _Jesus Christ, he's _aroused_.

Little pecks on the mouth and it's more want than he's felt for months; even more than when Charla sucked him off in the movie theater among a crowd full of people senior year. It's more than anything he's ever felt before. It's more because it's Sam. It doesn't have to do with want. It goes beyond that. It's more than love and affection and lust, its simply… happiness? Its living, it's being. It's easy.

With Sam he doesn't have to try he can just be and it can be perfect.

"Dee!!" Sam knocks loudly on the door, interrupting his thoughts.

"Leave me alone for a few minutes," Dean shouts through the door. He can hear Sam hesitate before walking off towards the kitchen.

It'd be a lie if Dean told himself that this was the first time he felt something other than brotherly affection when looking at Sam.

He's not proud to admit it, would rather not think about it, but it's true. He could pretend to himself that he was just an average horny teenager, that the lust he felt wasn't anything other than ordinary…

There was one time Dean can remember that was wrong on so many levels...

If your sixteen-year-old body jerks to attention when your chubby kid brother asks what the heck 'blow job' means, then you know you've got a problem.

And no, it's not the oddity of it all or feeling guilty, 'cause hell, he's been harboring these feelings for what seems like ages. No, it's that Sam isn't _Sam_ right now.

And as much as he'd like to pretend Sam's "innocent" pecks on the cheek and hand holding are simply little-kid comfort, deep down he's known it's been something else entirely. And if Sam is falling for him without the proper knowledge that _'hello dude, we're brothers' _Dean is so royally screwed. How do you resist something you've always wanted?

Dean bypassed the whole '_we're of the same blood its wrong he's my little brother oh fuck I'm going to hell might as well enjoy the ride'_ a long, long time ago. Accepting the truth is one thing, acting on it another. Which is why he'd never, _ever, _- he even swore to himself that he'd never - touch Sam, tell Sam, lust over Sam unless Sam was inclined to do so first. He'd never put his brother in that uncomfortable predicament. He'd never bring the truth to light. He'd never, _ever, _taint their relationship. He'd never do that to him.

Which is why what he's currently feeling is confusing as hell. He should be victorious! Sam likes him; green light says 'go.' But Sam's not Sam; he's not all there; he's not even in the right age mindset to understand what he's doing. Sure on the outside he's all man, and maybe subconsciously he knows what the hell he's doing, but _dammit_ he's not mentally old enough.

It's easy to let his brother shyly touch him middle of the night, three in the morning, when they're both exhausted and Sam's shaking from night terrors. But returning the caresses during the day when Sam is so clearly in control of his actions, it's wrong. It's wrong because it's taking advantage of someone who doesn't even know who he is.

It's sick.

But then again…

'_No,'_ Dean curses. _'Absolutely not.' _

He wants to go over the pros and cons of their situation, wants to shake every thought from his head and flee…

But then there's a crashing clang that shatters through the room and Dean's up on his feet and out of the bathroom in a matter of seconds.

Sam is standing in the middle of the kitchen, his head is hanging low, shoulder scrunched up, teeth biting lip, shaking. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Dee. I'm sorry." Pots and pans are scattered across the floor in every direction. Sam looks down at the box of oatmeal in his hand.

"Hungry?" Dean asks with a sigh and steps forward to close the gap between them. He brushes a gentle hand across the nape of Sam's neck to soothe him down before grabbing the box out of his damaged hand. "Want some oatmeal?" he asks and Sam nods with a little shimmer of a smile.

*

Dean is under the impression that Sam is mad at him for storming out of the room earlier but he doesn't ask.

They're eating their oatmeal in silence. Only the clank of spoons and the slurp of orange juice strikes through the quiet.

The sugar bowl sits between them and Dean nudges it towards his brother like an offer of peace. Sam smiles at him, piles half the content of brown sugar atop his bowl and digs in with a happy sigh.

And just like that the anger subsides.

*

"Can we go back to sleep?"

"Dude. It's 2 in the afternoon."

"I'm tired."

"You feelin' okay, buddy? You don't have a fever," Dean removes his hand from Sam's forehead. "How about you lay down on the couch, I'll get you some soda."

"No," Sam whines. "I want to lay down with _you_."

"Sam, I got a lot of stuff I need to work on right now. Lay on the couch, watch some TV. We have to leave soon for the doctors anyways."

But Sam doesn't relent. "No. Lay with me. C'mon, Dee." He tugs on Dean's arm, pulling him towards their unmade bed from last night.

But Dean twists his arm out of Sam's hold with a pronounced command of, "Sam. Couch. Now."

"You too," Sam wages with raised eyebrows and Dean huffs out in exasperation before accompanying his brother to the little loveseat.

They're not sitting for more than a minute and Sam's already pawing at Dean's shirt with a mischievous grin, trying to get at Dean's lips.

Dean steadies his brother's hands but can't move fast enough to dodge the lips that are now softly sucking against his own.

"Dammit, Sam," Dean mutters around his brother's mouth and forces himself to disengage while shoving Sam away with a rough hand. "I said stop it okay? No more."

"But you let me kiss you before!"

"I'm not talking about this right now."

"It's not fair! You let me kiss you before!"

"Yeah, but this is different."

"How?"

"It just is!"

"Dr. Kurtz said if you love me I can kiss you and you do! You said so yourself."

"Sam."

"You said so."

"Sam, I'm not playing around. Knock it off."

"But why?

"'Cause I said so!" he snaps. "Lay down. Go to sleep." He pretends to look off towards the television set; pretends to actually be interested in whatever the hell is on. But he catches Sam's pitiful face out the corner of his eye. His brother lips wibble, his eyes go dark with emotion and all Dean can think is, _'Oh crap, he's gonna start crying.'_

Dean sighs with his eyes squeezed shut, fingers gripping the bridge of his nose. "Why are you upset," he tries to ask in his most compassionate tone.

"You yelled at me," Sam says as if he'd been betrayed.

"I'm sorry… okay? I'm sorry. Can you just lie down. Please?"

"You don't like me."

"What?"

"You don't like me," he says again – this time more of a pout. "I thought you liked me but you don't."

"Oh God," Dean rolls his eyes. "I'm not dealing with this right now, Sam. You woke me up at fucking five this morning, trashed the – "

Sam's mouth cuts him off. He kisses him hard, rough, trickle of stale tears wetting Dean's own eyelashes.

"Sam," Dean warns but gives in when his brother's lips go softer, sweeter, little kisses that trail down to his chin. And he can't help it; he has to give in…

Dean lets Sam's pink, little lips nip at his own and he leans back so Sam has room to scoot his body into his lap.

Sam settles comfortably wedged between his brother's body and the armrest of the sofa, kiss after kiss placed with precision.

Dean doesn't yell, doesn't push him off. Instead he settles his own body around his brother's frame and, defeated, closes his eyes with his head resting on the back of the couch.

"Dee?" Sam asks in a tired, dazed voice. His hand is making patterns on Dean's cheek.

"What is it now, Sam?"

"It's fun, right?"

"…Yeah," Dean sighs. "It's fun."

"Knew it," Sam replies with pride.

*

With every day comes bearing new elements of Sam that Dean didn't even realize were there before.

To Dean it seems Sam may be getting better. The nightmares have started to subside, the fear that was once consuming his brother isn't as apparent anymore;, even the counselor admits there have been massive improvements considering Sam's circumstance.

Each day that passes by Sam gains a year. It's like he's passed beyond single digits for good but is still lingering in pre-teen curiosity. The aging should cause Sam to let up with the laidback touches. Sleeping in the same bed, crawling in middle of the night, lying close, inch for inch pressed together… It should end. _Should've_ ended.

But it hasn't.

Sam still likes to kiss. He still likes to peck his mouth against Dean's chin and touch his hair and squeeze his side and hold on tight.

The problem is, that's not even the worst of it. No – there's nothing adult-rated going on. No, the problem is that Dean let's Sam. He allows Sam to touch him freely. If anything he encourages him, urges him forward, ushers him in, tilts his head back and lets Sam nip.

Sam leans over, mid football game, angles his face just slightly under jawbone and kisses. Just a kiss. Innocent enough. No harm done. But what does Dean do? He reciprocates. He _permits. _He tucks Sam in closer with one strong hand and lets his own fingers dance through the silky brown curls of his brother's mess of hair. He lets himself smile, as a sigh breaks free from Sam's addictive lips.

"I like your lips," Sam says with a giggle. "They're puffy."

Dean snorts out a laugh and roughly pinches Sam's side, eliciting a yelp and initiating a harmless bout of wrestling.

It's weird to say its normal now, but Sam kissing him at random times during the day is nothing less of standard.

Dean lets him now, of course, let's his kid brother grab his face with strong hands, mouth tickling, lips smiling into the touch.

"Sam," Dean begins to say one day when his brother is draped over his back, arms encompassing his waist, nuzzling and breathing against his neck. "Sammy when we're around other people you can't touch me like this, okay?"

"How come?" He squeezes Dean's hips and practically spoons himself against Dean's back.

"Just listen to me about this, okay? You gotta do as I say this time. When we're in the car or with the doctors you can't kiss me. Okay, buddy?"

"Okay, I won't. Only in our room, right Dee?"

"That's right."

They never really established what they were to each other, never talked about love or lust or relationships or swapped words of affection, they never really had to.

To Sam it's simple: Dee is his and he is Dee's.

To Dean it's a bit more complicated, but for now? Well, he's only human.


	7. Chapter 7

The news broadcaster is talking about it again, that story about the missing boy that vanished six days ago. He's the fourth child to go missing around the county area, second one to disappear from the neighborhood playground. There's a noticeable pattern, clear signs that point to something strange, something supernatural, and it takes every ounce of control Dean has not to revert into _hunting mode _again_._

Sometimes there'll be a brief story on the evening news about a missing person or an unexplained death and Dean will have to fight the urge to be the hero. He'll have to push aside the need to help and ignore the consistent tug in his stomach. He can't be a hunter anymore, can't afford to put his life on the line for the sake of other people – not when Sam needs every ounce of his attention.

"Dude, be careful with that knife. Two hands, man." He's watching his brother over his shoulder while he scans the local newspaper. He purposely glances past the stories on the missing children and instead sweeps the ads for part time jobs.

The life they've grown up in, it's not what Dean wants for Sam this second time around. Not that the life they had when their dad was present was horrendous, just that a second chance at life means a new beginning. Sam deserves better, hell they both do. Which is why a little extra income – income that doesn't involve scamming and subterfuge – is a must. A real honest-to-god earning means Dean can rent out an apartment for the two of them. No more motels, no more running. It's Sam's wish finally come true.

"Sam," he repeats again a little harsher this time when he sees his brother waving the little carving tool around without care. The blade is probably as blunt as a butter knife but the fact that Sam is brandishing it like a light saber makes it all the more dangerous. "Hey, no more. Hand it over." He stands up and goes to grasp the knife from his brother's hand but Sam wiggles away with a grin. "Sam," he glares but his brother giggles at the look, mimicking Dean's face with the same sour expression.

"I said you're done. I mean it, Sam."

"I mean it, Sam," Sam repeats in a voice that sounds uncannily like his brother's. He's holding the knife above his head with a wide opened smile and Dean has to physically clench his fist to keep from smacking him in the face.

"_Sam!"_

"Sam! " He mimics, but his laughter immediately ceases when Dean swiftly knocks his legs out from underneath him and pins his body to the floor. His shoulder blades lie flat against the linoleum. Dean easily plucks the knife from Sam's fingers and gets back to his feet without effort.

"Whoa," Sam falters with his bad hand before getting into a sitting position. His face is slackened with awe. "How'd you learn to do that, Dean?"

"Doesn't matter," he starts to clean the mess off the table. Sam at 19 makes just as much of a mess as Sam at 5. Guts of the pumpkin are literally splashed across every surface of the kitchen and chunks of orange goo tangle the locks of Sam's hair into knots. "When I tell you to do something, you do it. Got it? Next time you -- " And like that he trails off, his brain finally catching up. "You said 'Dean.'

"What?"

"You called me 'Dean.'

Sam shakes his head swiftly back and forth, scattering more pumpkin across the floor. "Yeah, so?"

"I, you just… "

"What's wrong?" And it's that 'ghost of a smile' that caresses Sam's face, the same smile that puts a lump in Dean's throat. It's the smile that is so Sam-from-before-the-accident that Dean can't help but imagine that his brother from a few months ago is here, smiling at him.

"You, ah," he clears his throat, tries to pull back the emotional strings, "you called me 'Dean.'" He can't help but quirk his head to the side, like the deeper he stares at Sam the more answers he'll get.

Sam shrugs, all nonchalant. "I always call you Dean, stupid."

Whether this glimpse of remembering is a small step in the path of getting better or if _his_ Sam is truly back Dean can't tell for sure. Hope is starting to bubble again in his chest; the possibility of full recovery for his brother is edging its way back into his thoughts. But any hope is immediately dashed when Sam starts to tug him towards the table with a goofy grin on his face, pointing at his carved pumpkin with glee. And just like that Dean know_s_ that this isn't his Sam – only a brief glimpse of the former Sam, a ray of hope in the scheme of things, just one more filled in gap.

Loss has been apart Dean's journey. Loosing Sam in the accident, loosing a part of his brother that may not ever come back is a difficult thing to swallow. But it has also shown him what is precious. His brother is still here, still just as special as the Sam from before. And Dean is grateful. He _is. _He gets to be with his brother, experience life from Sam's new beautiful perspective. He gets to watch Sam grow up for a second time. This time he gets to let Sam grow up the way it should have happened the first time around.

Halloween is now a holiday his brother can enjoy without shame. Never before have they been able to celebrate it without salt rounds and lighter fluid.

Sam's pumpkin is still full of goo, the stringy seeds peek through the carved out eyeholes. The whole thing looks like a giant mess, like a two-ton cargo truck ran it over with its back tires.

"You like it, Dean?"

"What is it?" He looks at it from every angle, pokes the flesh with the tip of his finger and tries to dislodge the toothpicks that are stuck in random places.

"Don't!" Sam smacks Dean's hand away. "Those are his spikes!"

"Spikes?"

"He's a porcupine!"

"Oh." He squints at the lumpy mush of orange and tries to make out the shape.

"Isn't it cool, Dean? I made it for you."

He tries to smile at his brother's excitement but instead reaches up to tussle Sam's hair. It still makes his heart stop a bit, hearing his brother say his name, the one word he's been longing to hear ever since the crash. "Where's the mouth, buddy? You forgot to carve the rest of it."

"No I didn't. He doesn't have a mouth because he doesn't like to talk."

"Oh," Dean says with a hidden smile. "That makes sense."

"I'm hungry, can we get pizza for dinner, Dean? Please? Please, Dean?"

"We just had pizza, Sam. We had pizza for lunch."

His forehead crinkles in thought. "We did?"

"Yup," He answers picking a few pumpkin seeds off of his brother's t-shirt. "Thin crust, your favorite."

"Pepperoni?" Sam asks, and Dean nods his head, 'yes,' even though it's a lie. The doctor told him it'd better to let his brother make up his own memories instead of constantly telling him that he's wrong. Apparently the more you scold someone dealing with amnesia the more resistant they are to try to remember. The last thing Dean wants to do is crush Sam's spirit, especially when he's so keen on making him proud.

So he patiently puts up with the continuous questions while making them dinner. With ever turn of the spoon Sam's off asking him about something else, fidgeting around with everything in the kitchen, reaching down to tug on Dean's necklace every time he's being ignored.

Dean's a patient man. He's learned to be a patient man because of Sam.

There was this one Halloween back in '85 where the highlight of him babysitting was when Sam accidentally dropped a bowl of soup on the kitchenette floor, which led to a hidden colony of ants crawling out from the woodwork to embark on a journey through the spilt star noodles. This time Halloween is more or less the same. Sam may be older but he's now just as clumsy. Once again there's a river of chicken and stars spreading down the length of the kitchen tiles. The newspaper with the circled job ads is trashed along with now soggy cell phone.

_Patience_, Dean has to repeat. _Patience. _

*

He loves his brother but every few days he finds himself cursing the new life he has. He doesn't blame Sam. No, he'd never blame Sam. He doesn't know _whom _to blame, just knows that the situation sucks. Sam is still there, but only mockingly, and Dean doesn't know how to pull him out. Sometimes he finds himself falling in love with the new Sam, at other moments he'd sell his soul to get his brother back. _Sometimes_ the Sam that stares back at him is like a Sam-puppet. His brother's tall, strong body stares at him blankly with a little boy lost somewhere inside.

But Dean's a determined man. If he wants Sam to gain his memory back bad enough he'll figure out a way to make it happen. That's why he's game for anything. Step number one – trying to trigger memories by visiting places from the past. First stop on the list? Eating food that can't be delivered and doesn't come out of a can.

After Sam's usual late afternoon nap, Dean takes advantage of his brother's good mood to convince him to eat out for once. Sam still flinches at the sight of the car, still withdraws from all conversation when inside the vehicle. So Dean gently places a hand on his brother's knee, giving him that solid, silent weight of support.

The diner is nice, no different from the usual, not special in any way, yet it looks like some they've eaten at in the past. And because it's familiar, Dean's hope is that something will click in his brother's mind. Sam's eyes are wide-set on the blueberry pie in the display case and there's a genuine flair of happiness on his face. When Sam licks his lips and turns to smile at him – all teeth and deep dimples – Dean knows this was a good idea; memories flooding back or not, it's a nice escape for the both of them.

"Let's get pie for dinner."

"Nah," Dean chuckles. "As much as I'd like to say, 'yeah,' we gotta eat some real food. We can have pie _after_ dinner. Deal?"

"Deal." Sam flips through the menu, tongue sticking out in pure concentration. "Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Where's my Dad? Is he still doing a job for work or will he be back soon?" Sam isn't even looking across the table. He's too engrossed in the menu, but the words are said so calmly, so blasé, as if they've been talking about their father all along.

"He's working a job, Sammy. You know that." His voice tries to match the casual tones of his brother, but it comes out forced. He's about to change the subject but there's no need to because Sam's already off the topic.

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"You want me to go with?"

"Dude," Sam says in the most affronted voice, "Don't be gross. I know how to pee by myself."

"Sorry, sorry," Dean says with his hands held in surrender, "didn't know if you knew where it was."

"I can read you know." His voice is quiet as he scoots out of the booth. His right leg shakes a bit as he balances himself into a standing position. "I'm not totally useless."

"Sammy –" But his brother has already turned to leave, his feet shuffling against the ground as he makes his way to the other side of the restaurant.

*

When the waitress comes to bring the food Sam shies away as close to the window as possible. Dean shoots him a questioning look but Sam just shakes his head and turns his face downward, the wetness of his lashes making smudges on his cheeks.

"You okay?" Dean asks as soon as the waitress leaves his side.

"Don't like strangers," Sam says with a sniff. His eyes intently follow the waitress's every move as she returns to fill his glass of milk.

"It's okay, Sammy," he whispers as soon as she's gone. "I don't like strangers either."

*

Sam doesn't talk to him the whole ride home, though the minute they make their way through the door he pushes both twin beds together. It's sort of like a peace offering from their earlier tiff, though he won't let Dean help. He's apparently determined to prove he's able and strong and _capable_ enough to do things by himself. Dean watches with concealed admiration. It's amazing, how far his brother has come in such a short amount of time. He's looking healthier now, put the weight back on that he'd lost in the hospital, and his limbs are beginning to work with him now instead of against him. The memories are proof enough that Sam's making progress. With each recollection, he gains another ounce of self-confidence. By becoming more self-assured his brother gets that much closer to becoming the person he once was.

Sam flops down on one side of the bed, pats the empty area next to him, beckoning Dean to do the same.

"No TV tonight?"

"Tired," Sam says with a flick of his foot. His sneaker slaps against the floor with a 'thud.'

"Yeah," Dean yawns, "'s been a long day." He turns his head to glance at Sam who is staring at his face, lost in thought. He reaches over and plugs the slope of Sam's nose with his fingers. The response he gets, of Sam's soft smile in response to the gesture, has him sighing in contentment. He rolls his body onto his brother's, his head resting against shoulder, hand sneaking up the underside of the soft t-shirt material. He's pleasantly full, the weight of his stomach dragging him into sleep, so he closes his eyes.

*

Sam nuzzles the tuff of hair that rests below his chin. When he hears Dean's heavy breathing he knows it's his cue to flip off the lamp. He nestles in closer, melts into the feeling of Dean's warm hand against his belly.

What Sam feels for Dean is at the same time both simple and complicated. He may not know what "home" is, where home used to be, or what the future holds, but what he does know is that he's home now. Wherever Dean is, that's home.

And being home is a great thing.

*

Is not telling someone the whole truth the same as lying to them? It's getting difficult to keep a running total of what Sam knows, what Sam _believes_ he knows, and what Sam is still clueless about.

What Dean can't figure out is if Sam's realized that they're brothers. Sam knows there was a fire, knows his mom is dead, knows his dad goes away to work on "jobs" all the time, but he's never made the connection – or if he has he's never told Dean about it.

Why is he keeping answers from Sam? Well, he'd _like_ to believe it's because he wants his brother to remember for himself. The real reason? The affection. If Sam knows they're brothers it's game over, they're done. RIght now he's not ready for the physical comfort to stop.

The key to getting Sam to remember is to help speed up the remembering process. The problem is, what will Sam remember? No, more than that the question is does he _want_ Sam to remember? In some ways he wants his partner in crime back, that big geek that can back him in a hunt, who he can count on be it hell or high water. It's tough not having his brother here.

If Sam started remembering he'd no doubt remember all the things Dean fears most: wanting to leave for Stanford, hating their father, the plan of escape to start a normal life. And with that would come the anger, the resentment, the hate; the kisses would stop, all touching would cease, the smiles would disappear along with the childlike naivety. Though maybe what he'd gain in return would far outweigh the benefit. Like it or not what he's doing right now is nothing more than babysitting.

Yeah, Sam is doing well and Dean couldn't be more proud, but it's still a daily struggle to do the most basic of tasks. Things have started to get even more strenuous now that Sam has decided he's determined to do everything for himself. The fact that he's a Winchester isn't helping the situation, particularly when that patented stubborn gene is paired with a bad mood thanks to an upcoming therapy session.

Sam's new thing is taking control. He no longer wants Dean to do anything for him, though, simultaneously he still _needs, needs, needs. _

A ceramic coffee mug shatters across the floor for the second time this morning. Chunks of the pottery clang under the broken stove, apple juice soaks the broken shards of mug under the table.

Dean has to control his temper, huff under his breath and keep in mind that although his brother looks his nineteen years, he's not yet physically capable to control the twitches in his hand.

"Next time, let me do it."

"I can pour my own cup!"

"Obviously you can't, Sam."

"I'll clean it up," he says with force, though when his long legs dart to help pick up the broken pieces, his feet buckle under the sudden movement and his hands collide with the slivered ceramic.

"Dammit, Sam." He rubs his hands across his face, pinches the bridge of his nose to keep from lashing out. "Go sit on the sofa. _Carefully."_

"I can help –"

"Out of the kitchen! Now!"

"But my hands are all bloody. I'll get the couch messy."

"Go get a bandage while I mop up the pieces."

"I don't know where they are."

"Closet. Top shelf."

"What if they're something waiting for me in the closet."

"_Sammy."_

"I can't get the wrapper opened by myself."

It's the whining that throws Dean over the edge. He takes a deep breath to cool his anger – counts to ten and then talks through clenched teeth. "You're killing me here, man." The broken pieces are gleaming in the wet paper towel Dean is using the wipe the floor. He's about to abandon the entire cleaning process, just say 'fuck it' and grab a beer from the fridge when the jingle alarm on his cell phone goes off. "Aw shit." He gets to his feet, tosses the remains of the mug into the sink. "Come on, we have to get ready to go see Dr. Kurtz."

"I'm not going to the doctor today," Sam states matter-of-factly while Dean wraps a cloth around his hands to stop the bleeding.

"Oh yes you are."

"Na-ah. You're gonna have to fight me to get me in the car."

"Fine," Dean says. He doesn't care if his voice sounds harsh, doesn't care if he's being unsympathetic. "I'll wrestle your ass into the backseat if I have to. I don't care. You're going."

"I'm bigger than you, you won't be able to."

"Oh that's hilarious. I seem to recall me pinning you to the ground with one hand."

"Doesn't matter," Sam banters, "even if you get me in the car I'll just run away when we get there."

It's hard not to ignore the sting those words cause. _'I'll run away.'_ It creates a surge of emotion, of bitterness mixed with the already present frustration. "Fine, Sam. Run away. Let's see how far you get."

His brother is standing there, arms crossed, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "You don't mean that."

"We're going to the doctor's," he cuts off abruptly. "Grab your crap, and get in the car."

"I don't want to."

"Tough."

"I'm not leaving."

"Three seconds until I shove you out the door. "

"I'm not going and you can't make me!" It's shouted through the room as Sam sprints to seek refuge in the motel bathroom. The door slams shut with resounding crack. The click of the lock comes about a second after.

Dean just about growls out in response but instead snatches his keys and heads to the door. He slams the front door with the same resonating crash.

The next thing Sam hears is the snarl of the Impala before he's left alone in absolute silence.


	8. Chapter 8

The minute the Impala turns out of the parking lot the guilt sets in.

Dean didn't realize to what extent his nerves were already frayed until Sam locked himself in the bathroom. Needless to say, it was the straw that broke the camel's back.

This situation with his brother is more than taxing on his nerves and it honestly has nothing to do with the tantrums. Sure, the less than agreeable behavior sparks something in Dean's level of patience but the tantrums aren't the root of the problem. The thing is; Sam looks a 19-year-old kid, someone that should be competent enough to handle himself when presented with the task of going to the doctor's. But he's not 19, not really_. _As difficult as it is, sometimes Dean has to remind himself that his brother's mind is still not yet capable of handling certain situations. As hard as it is, sometimes he needs to give his brother a break.

_Still doesn't give him an excuse to behave like that, _he thinks angrily.

Dean didn't mean to take off like a bat out of hell, but he couldn't take it any longer. To be honest he's surprised he's lasted this long. One major melt down after almost five months of being Sam's nurse? Not too bad. Although Dean knows in his heart of hearts that he's entitled to at least one mental freak-out in the course of it all, he doesn't feel right leaving Sam behind. Sam is allowed the liberty of breaking down, not him.

He hates to admit it, when the chill breath of wind flutters through the cracked window of the car, but it feels good; hell, it feels like _relief, _breaking free for once, alone, unburdened. Sam isn't a burden – he's not – but it's so strenuous to remain composed all the time amidst the continual downfalls.

Dean doesn't realize he's driven himself to an actual location until his hand reaches to shift the car into 'park.' Apparently his subconscious was itching for a drink because the neon lights spelling 'Owl Tavern' are flashing green. The bar is built of faux logs, looking like a cozy cabin more so than a biker bar. It looks familiar – as all bars tend to look alike when you've visited your fair share – but there's something in the wall fixtures, the cheesy _Guinness _ads, the classic 'Hooter's' Christmas lights, and the repeated figurines with pull cords that reminds Dean of Sam. Not of Sam now, but of _his_ Sam, the one that left to fulfill his dreams, the one Dean stole back from the grips of Stanford.

The thoughts of his brother threaten to leave him breathless. It comes so swiftly – all the memories of his lost best friend. Never again will they hang out at the townie bars. Never again will they laugh at inside jokes, of memories that are now buried deep inside places Sam can't tap into.

Never again will they hunt.

The Sam he has now has no idea of the supernatural – the real reality of their entire being. He doesn't want Sam to know, but the fact that he can't have his brother to help shoulder the burden of their family's fate is a hard truth to digest. Being alone in the knowing without a soul to share it with is overwhelming to say the least.

Inside the bar he seats himself far away from the crowd of locals. It says a lot for Dean's disposition that he doesn't even smile at the more than inclined bartender. She's beautiful, perky, lace of the bra purposely peaking out above the trim of her white tank and it hardly registers in his mind how eager she is. He hasn't had sex in god knows how long. There've been random moments of time of course – stolen moments of time - when Sam has been in therapy or rehab or catching some rest - where Dean has ventured out to find a willing girl. But it's not the same. Sex has become more of a basic need that needs fulfilling rather than something to be enjoyed. Even now he can't bring himself to initiate an invitation; his mind is preoccupied with his own self-loathing – the fact that he's left Sam alone, the fact that doing so feels so good.

*

At first Sam thinks he's heard wrong.

The rumbling engine of the car was probably just on T.V. And even if it _is_ the Impala, Dean is probably just tinkering with the engine, pretending to be busy so he doesn't have to continue the fight.

_He doesn't like my bad moods,_ is what Sam thinks. He knows Dean doesn't like him when he acts up, but sometimes he just can't help it. He gets so angry sometimes. He hates the doctors, hates being left alone with strangers, being separated from Dean even if it's just for the afternoon. There's always that fear deep down that one of the nurses is going to take him away and he'll never, ever, be able to see Dean again. Even when Dean's within arms reach it's not enough; he's still scared.

Sam hasn't been as insistent on the salt lines staying intact, but he can't fall asleep unless Dean's promised that the doors are locked and the windows securely latched. It terrifies him, knowing how easily someone could get in, how easily someone could take him away. The consistent nightmares of shadow figures don't help but enhance the ever-burning fear in his belly.

Sam listens with his ear pressed against the door but the sound of the engine is gone. He can't hear anything, actually. He waits a minute longer in dull silence thinking that if he doesn't open the door, Dean will soon come and find him.

He cups a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, feeling like he's in the middle of a game of hide-and-seek. "Dean," he says softly with the door opened a crack. He waits again then ventures out a little to peek around the corner.

He holds his crippled hand close to his chest, hugging it over his heart. The throbbing ache has made its usual late-afternoon return and the cramping twinge that shoots up through his wrist the minute he makes his way out of the bathroom snaps him out of his playful disposition.

"Dean," he calls out, a twinge of fear along with the hurt of his hand making his voice tremor. "Dean my hand is pulsing like a heartbeat again and it really, really hurts." The aspirin bottle is sitting near the stove but Sam knows he's not allowed to touch it without Dean's permission. He's not allowed to touch any medicine bottles unless he asks Dean first.

He calls Dean's name for a second time once he's walked into the interior of the tiny kitchenette, and again he's met with silence. The fear doesn't quite start to flow freely until he spins around to face the front windows that look upon the parking lot; it's when his eyes come to rest upon the desolate parking spaces that his heart drops into his stomach.

He forgets the hurt in his hand, forgets that his body isn't yet capable of moving faster than a swift walk, and disjointedly sprints to the door. His chest collides with the heavy wood as his good hand rattles the handle unlocked. His need to see Dean outweighs his fear of the outside and before he realizes it he's standing on the pavement in the empty parking space where the Impala should be.

What should be anger turns into absolute panic and the tears immediately prick his eyes and flood down his heated cheeks. The habit that Dean has so often chastised is discarded at once and his thumb promptly finds its way back into the rightful position of his mouth. He's standing in the cold, barefoot and crying, the sucking motion of his mouth the only thing that's easing the pace of his heart.

_He left, _is all that Sam can think. It makes the tears fall faster, makes the thickness in his throat get tighter…

The only person he wants to run to is gone.

_*_

One drink, that's what Dean's decided on. One drink and then he'll leave. Though, one drink turns to three and a bottle of PBR develops into hearty swigs of Johnnie Walker.

His fingers twitch to grab the nearest pool stick. He wants to teach those hicks how a real man shoots pool but he figures it's not worth the hustle. The men don't really look like they'd be up for betting big and Dean knows it's about time he gets back to Sam.

He grabs his leather jacket, throws some bills on the tabletop towards the bar tender, and pivots on his heels out the back door.

Time seems to heal all wounds, or perhaps it's the burning whiskey in his belly, but either way his nerves feel at ease for a change. There's a queasiness playing around his gut, but he knocks away the sensation with the delusion that he's running on too little sleep and not enough food.

It felt nice spending some time alone, away from his brother, though not as good as he thought it would. He's only been gone for an hour tops and the need to drive back to Sam is already overwhelming.

Of course his brother is smart enough to know not mess with the stovetop or answer the door – even if it's housekeeping. Dean's taught him well and Sam's a smart kid, car accident or not. Nevertheless the tugging feeling of discomfort continues to nag and has Dean's foot pressing down harder on the accelerator.

To reassure himself that all is well he maneuvers his phone out of his jeans pocket. The grainy voice of the man in charge floats through the receiver end of the phone one the call goes through and Dean swiftly asks the man in charge to switch over to their in-room phone. He waits with gripped knuckles on the wheel as the other end connects the call.

Though, by the fourth ring Dean hangs up. It's pointless, anyways. He's told Sam never to answer the phone, there's no reason he'd pick up now. Besides, Sam's probably passed out on the bed, sound asleep, tiredly waiting his return.

The 'vacancy' sign greets him as he rolls the car into its rightful parking space, directly situated just beyond the front door.

The strangeness of the scene doesn't click in Dean's mind until he's standing outside the car. The front door to their motel room – the same door that Sam so diligently makes sure is locked – is wide open.

It doesn't make sense. No one knows they're there. No one would be looking for them – even if Dad finally thought it time to talk to them he wouldn't barge in like the Marines, he'd call first, or scout out the area before he made his appearance.

He's already reaching for his gun, his right hand firmly gripped on the tucked-away handle in the back of his jeans. He cautiously enters in the room, one foot quietly placed in front of the other, Sam's name already hot on his tongue. His gaze surveys every inch of the place and he kicks the door fully open, making sure no one is hiding behind waiting to attack. Every detail – Sam's missing medicine bottle near the stove, the opened cupboard with the missing salt containers – Dean mentally notes it in his head. But everything seems to be gone. Sam is gone.

He double-checks the places he's already searched, looking for a third time in the bathroom as if his lanky brother is somehow hiding in the bathtub. But he's not; of course he's not. No one's there.

A million possible scenarios play through Dean's head: Sam being kidnapped by strangers, Sam being kidnapped by demons, Sam _fleeing_ from something, his brother broken, beaten, alone.

Dean checks every possible nook and cranny, sweeps the entire place one last time, calls Sam's name both inside and out of the building until he's too hoarse to scream. There's no answer, no one's even around.

He busts into the front building of the complex and questions the manager with a forceful shove to the chest, and though it's probably not necessary to get furious with the guy, right now Dean can't behave any different. His kid brother is missing because he wasn't there to look out for him.

The guy has no information, cowers with his hand on the phone when Dean walks out slamming the door behind him. He peels out of the parking lot, the tires screeching as he flies down the road.

*

There's no one to call, no help to be had. The only thing to do now is drive.

Every time his own patronizing voice screams in his head that this is his entire fault, he quickly shoves it aside. He doesn't have time for guilt. He doesn't have time to hate himself for all the mistakes he's made in regards to his brother.

Dean figures that there's a three-mile radius of where Sam could be. Even if he was taken by someone the probability that they'd cross the river onto the highway is pretty unlikely. That means that from one end to the other – from the outskirts of town to the farmhouse beyond the school – is exactly where Dean needs to drive to pin down Sam's location.

A mile South from their motel, right when the fuel gauge informs Dean that it's time to make a pit stop, is when a dark tuft of brown hair sticking out of one of his own worn sweatshirts catches his eye. He's near a park on the outskirts of the quaint downtown area. The place is scattered with multiple picnic benches and Sam's settled against the closest one. How he got this far from their place of residence Dean has no idea. Sam looks well, not hurt at least, and that's the most important factor of all.

More than relief, there's assurance that settles in Dean's heart.

The sigh hisses out through his clenched teeth as the car rolls to a stop. He doesn't even bother turning off the ignition before bolting from the car, darting up the hill to where Sam is sitting propped against a wooden bench.

Sam doesn't seem to notice the intrusion at first – too focused on forming a perfect salt circle around his body with the tiny shaker of seasoning salt from their motel cabinet. His eyes are small, red and glassy from crying no doubt, and in that tiny detail Dean's heart breaks even further. He's about to sob himself the minute his knees buckle against wet grass and he's scooping up his brother, whispering all the while, "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," like a mantra to dull both their heartbeats.

For a minute there's not even comprehension in Sam's face, and just when Dean's about to start worrying whether his brother recognizes him, Sam's face crumples and his chest heaves with wet, rattling sobs.

"I'm sorry," are the only words Dean can get out, saying them continuously above the sound of Sam's sobs as the tears roll down. His brother is limp in his arms; the weight of his body and towering height threatens to push them both backwards down the hill. But it doesn't matter. He'll hold Sam like this forever. His brother's strong hands are gripping him almost painfully, fingertips in a death grip on his leather jacket, forehead solidly pressed against the crook of his neck.

"Sam," is all Dean sighs, and his mouth rests upon the top of his brother's head, his lips brushing affectionately against sweat-dampened hair. "Don't leave like that, ever again," he finally chokes out, his voice growing firmer, stronger, now that he knows his brother is safe. "You scared the hell outta me, buddy. Don't you ever take off like that again, Sam, do you hear me?"

"Don't _you_ leave like that," Sam breathes out just as forcefully and his face lifts up to stare Dean straight in the eyes, challenging him to say any different. "Why'd you leave, Dean? Why'd you leave?" He runs a hand through Dean's hair, pulls roughly at the ends with a scowl before burying his face against his brother's chest, inhaling deeply.

Dean's gaze drops down to study the grass, eyes looking anywhere but at Sam, though his hand continues to finger the base of his brother's neck. "I needed a few minutes for myself. I needed a minute to think."

For a moment they're both silent. The strain of the situation starts to catch up and their bodies slump against each other, minds reeling in thought.

"I was so scared, Dean," Sam hiccups out, the words muffled by the leather material. "I didn't know where you were."

"I know, Sammy."

"It's 'cuz I was bad, right?"

"No, Sam – "

"I won't be bad again, I promise. I won't be bad anymore, just don't leave."

"Shhh," he whispers when Sam's breath starts to hitch again. "You're okay."

"Don't leave me," Sam heavily sobs and Dean makes sure to hold him tighter, as if the harder he crushes Sam against his chest the more likely the pain will ease. "Breathe, Sammy, slow down your breathing for me, okay? Remember what Nurse Shayla taught you? Slow breaths." The last thing he wants is a repeat of last week. Sam got so spooked on the way to his therapy session that his hyperventilating breaths caused him to pass out. "Sammy, look at me," he commands, lifting Sam's face so it's level with his own. "I'm not leaving, I was never leaving. I just stepped out for an hour, like that one time I left to pick you up McDonalds, 'member?" Sam slowly nods so Dean continues on – though not before kissing him gently on his parted lips. "It's my fault, Sam. Not yours." He watches about ten different emotions flutter across his brother's face, though his features finally settle on exhausted contentment. "You okay, kiddo?" He waits for Sam's soft smile before getting to his feet, brushing a hand down his knees to wipe away the sticking grass blades. "Home?" he asks, and Sam bites his lip to keep his smile from stretching ear to ear.

*

Even when he's filling up the gas tank his eyes never stray from his brother's sight

"Ew, gross," Sam randomly comments once Dean's done paying and they're both situated in the car.

"What?" he asks with a grunt as he crumbles the gas receipt and tosses it in to the backseat.

"I got wet salt all over my jeans."

Dean snorts out a laugh and sets the heat on high. "What were you trying to do with the salt?"

"Salt circle means protection," Sam states matter-of-factly. "I ran away to find you but I got tired. I was going to take a nap but I knew I had to be safe. I packed the salt in my backpack before I left."

"Smart thinkin', Sammy," Dean clasps a proud hand against his brother's face. "Why do you have to be so smart," he teases, the hand that's resting against Sam's face pushes his head away playfully.

"I'm smart enough for the both of us," Sam chuckles and he dodges Dean's hand when he goes to play-punch him in the ribs.

*

When they get home the flashing red light of the answering machine is blinking.

"Can I push it?" Sam excitedly asks but Dean grabs his waist with both hands before he can run off.

"Hold on there, cowboy. First things first: medicine."

Sam's nose scrunches at the notion. "What for?"

"Don't act like you don't know. You've been nursing that hand ever since I found you. Two pills or three, how bad does it hurt?"

"Bad," Sam mumbles, and he lets Dean take the backpack off his shoulders to search for the bottle.

"Drink a whole glass of water with it, Sammy."

"I know," he sighs, taking the circular horse pills out of Dean's hand.

After chugging half a glass to wash away the taste he looks over to where Dean's messing with the dishes in the sink. "Can I play it now?" He waits for a nod of approval then half skips, half hobbles over to the answering machine on the nightstand.

"_Mr. Winchester,"_ the message begins to play, _"this is Steve Gershwin, head medical facilitator of New County Hospital. Umm, we have a problem. I need you to call back on our emergency line as soon as you receive this call. Thank you."_

Sam looks at Dean, confusion etched in his down turned brows. Dean glances at his cell phone and sees two missed called from the same number.

"Shit."


	9. Chapter 9

It didn't matter what the phone call was about, the fact that they called at all was bad enough. Dean didn't need a college education to figure that out. The medical facilitator who left the voicemail – Dr. Gershwin, or whoever he was – had a twinge of regret in his voice with the message he left. Gruff seriousness Dean could take but not regret, not remorse; the man sounded as if he felt apologetic for the news he was about to spill. There were only a handful of circumstances Dean could think of that would muster that type of reaction. All of them were pretty grave.

Dean made sure not to let the worry he felt show. He didn't need Sam riled up, listening in on the conversation with those big brown eyes, frightened. So Dean smiled slightly at his brother's pout, pulled him in with one arm around his neck and kissed his temple before heading outside.

"Ah, yeah, hi," Dean said when the other line picked up. "My name is Dean Winchester. I got a call from um, a Steve Gershwin about an emergency or something?" He rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, felt a week's worth of stubble beneath the touch. "Ma'am, you there?" he asked when no one replied.

"Yes, Mr. Winchester. Hold on while I transfer you over."

The obnoxious crescendo of elevator music played for a split second before another line clicked on. "Mr. Winchester? It's Dr. Morgan. I'm glad to finally get in touch with you. I work with Steve Gershwin on cases like these."

"Cases like what?"

There was a pause before the man decided to reply. "Medical situations involving patients in need of… more help… then they're being given at present."

"More help? What do you mean more help?"

"Live in nurses, 24-hour services, foster care – "

"Foster care?" He asked dumbfounded. "I don't… Sam's in _my_ care," he stated threateningly._ "I'm_ his guardian."

"Yes, Mr. Winchester, I understand. I'm not talking about foster care –"

"Oh," Dean let out the breath of air he'd been holding in. "Well that's a relief," he chuckled into the receiver. "What's this about then, doc?"

"Here at New County Hospital we have a high… reputation for patient satisfaction. Our main goal is for Samuel to get the optimum care possible."

"Uh huh," Dean said, "Cut to the chase."

"Samuel missed his appointment with Dr. Kurtz and hospital regulation says that if a patient – one at Samuel's level of needs – misses a major visit, hospital staff has to get in contact immediately. Now, Mr. Winchester, our nurse's station called your place of residence along with your listed emergency contact number for two straight hours and no one picked up." The sound of a pager went off in the background and the man paused for a second before continuing. "We visited your home, Mr. Winchester, and what we saw wasn't good."

"You came _here?" _An abundance of mental images entered his mind – Sam being left alone, the firearms hidden beneath the beds._ "_Why, why would you do that?"

"Its just policy, sir. But what we found – unlocked doors, opened cabinets of chemicals inside, all within your brother's reach, Samuel's prescription of Tramadol missing along with his Nebulizer, and both of you gone… Samuel needs a safer environment; one that's controlled and stable."

"Wait, wait," Dean's heart was pounding out a harsh rhythm, and he plastered on a forced smile, though no one else could see it. "What happened today, it, um, well it wasn't how it normally is here, I can tell you that. My brother, he just… we had a minor problem today but nothing happened. Sam was with me the whole time," he lied.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but right now all cards are stacked against you. Your brother needs to be transported to a 24 hour a day rehabilitation clinic."

"No," Dean kicked the broken side-panel of the motel with the tip of his boot. "No, no way. Sam likes it here; he's starting to do so well. And he needs me. He needs to be with me. Here. Please," he swallowed threat of angry tears, "please, don't do this. The kid needs me. He does."

"Listen, son," the man's voice went suddenly soft, "I can't help you with this, not right now, but there are… options. Now, your brother will be in top of the line care with a nursing staff at his side all hours of the day. You still get visiting hours."

"For how long? How long does he have to stay there?"

"I don't know. Could be a few months, could be indefinitely. He may have to stay until there's vast improvement."

"This is crap," Dean spat. "I have full custody."

"You're a kid yourself, son. Your rights are limited – especially when it comes to the welfare of your brother's medical issues. Now I'm sorry. Really I am. But my hands are tied." There was another long-winded pause, then the sound of ruffled papers. "Someone will be by in the morning to move Samuel to his new location."

Dean stayed on the line, ear pressed hard against the phone long after the call ended. He peered into the window that led to their pushed-together Queen bed. Sam was laying belly down, face in his hands smiling absentmindedly at the T.V. screen.

All the feelings, all the anger, he shoved it down inside; buried the pain along with the grief and covered it all with a strained grin before opening the door.

*

"Sammy, I need you to be brave, okay? Sam?" His bruised knuckles rapped against the bathroom door, the one his brother was hiding behind. "Sam, you hear me in there? Come on, man, not now. I need you to come on out and finish dinner."

He waited until the macaroni was cooked to tell Sam the news. In hindsight that was probably a stupid idea, waiting until they were shoveling food in their mouths to talk about the new arrangement. Dean just thought that if his brother's mouth was full of gooey cheese he'd be too distracted to really feel the full blow of the words. He tried to break the news in gently, but when the words "living with the nurses and not here for a while," spilled out, Sam mentally checked out, running away to the comfort of the bathroom.

The door wasn't locked, but Dean didn't want to force his way inside. Sam needed to know that he had privacy whenever he needed it.

"Two minutes, Sammy," Dean called. "Two minutes and then I need you out here sitting at the table, got it?" He knocked a final two times against the wood then went back into the kitchen to finish the rest of the meal.

It wasn't long after Dean was downing his second plate of mac and cheese that Sam sat down across from him, gaze focused on the noodles as he folded his legs beneath him on the chair.

Dean flicked his crumpled-up napkin at Sam face, but the only response he got was Sam staring at him with blank eyes.

"It's gonna be okay," Dean said in the most enthusiastic voice he could summon. "Hey, how 'bout this, how's this – I head out and get us some ice cream and you can eat cookies n' cream until you puke." Sam's expression didn't change; the corners of his mouth were still turned down in a scowl. "Then what about a movie? We can watch whatever the hell you want to, I don't even care if it's 'My Little Pony.' Come on, Sammy," Dean moaned when his brother went back to somberly poking at the food with his fork, "don't make me feel like an ass. Don't do this to me, man. I don't want you to leave anymore than you do."

"Can we just lay on the bed?

"You'd rather lie on the bed instead of eat junk food and watch cartoons?" Dean got up from his seat before Sam had a chance to catch his smile. "Whatever floats your boat."

*

Half past eight and Sam was already drifting to sleep. They were on the bed, just as Sam had asked. Dean had him tucked up against his side, as was their usual position, his protective hands combing through the strands of Sam's hair.

"You fallin' asleep on me already?" he tapped the underside of Sam's chin with his fingertips, "Hey!" He scolded, slapping his brother's saliva-soaked thumb from his mouth. "Knock it off, man. Quit sticking that damn finger in your mouth."

"I can suck my thumb if I want to," he combated with a self-satisfied smile. "If I suck my thumb at night at the hospital you won't ever know."

"Hey," Dean pried Sam's fingers away from his face for a second time, "that's not fair. You know I don't want you to leave."

"I know," he sighed.

"I'll be with you every day I can."

"I know."

"And you're gonna be good for the nurses, right dude?" He jiggled a hand over his brother's broad chest. "You're gonna be a big boy for me, right Sam?"

"Yes, sir."

Dean snorted out a response. "'Yes sir?'" he chuckled. "Since when have you ever told me, 'yes sir'?"

Sam looked up at him from upside-down. "I dunno," he laughed, mimicking Dean's smile. "It just slipped out."

*

The next morning wasn't near as easy as Dean had hoped it would be. Yeah, he knew it wasn't going to be pleasant at all, but the way it turned out was borderline 'slightly traumatic'. It started with Dean reassuring Sam that he'd be by his side every day and ended with dean eating his words when the nurse told him that visiting hours were only twice a week - before sleeping hours and after lunch.

Like a recording on a loop, Sam's pleads haunted him.

"_You told me you wouldn't leave me again."_

"_I'm not leaving you, Sammy. You're just going to the doctors to feel better."_

Sam was doing well until the van door with the logo "County Hospital Transportation" painted on the side swung open and the heavy man in nurse scrubs gripped Sam's shoulders to steer him inside. His brother lost it, not liking the touch of a total stranger, finally coming to realize that _going away for a little while_ actually meant _going away without Dean_.

"Hey!" Dean had shouted, "Don't touch him like that; let me do it."

"Mr. Winchester I need you to stay put." One of the nurses put a firm hand against his chest, blocking the car from his sight.

"You're joking. I can't even sit next to him on the ride over?"

"You've done enough already," she fleetingly glared accusingly at Dean as if he had somehow damaged Sam while in his care, as if he purposely messed up just to make Sam hurt; as if he'd ever do anything to make Sam feel that he was less than number one in his life.

He didn't even get to help make Sam's new hospital room feel like home. The van left before he had a chance to tell his brother goodbye.

Dean turned around so he didn't have to watch the tail end of the car drive off down the road. The view of Sam's tear streaked face pressed against the car window would've been too much to take in. His brother's leaving was hard enough. He didn't need the gut-wrenching farewell.

When they left they took more than just Sam. The hospital took everything: everything Sam used, everything Sam owned, everything Dean had ever given his brother as either gifts or hand-me-downs.

The motel room looked bare. All traces that anyone by the name of 'Sam Winchester' had ever lived there were stripped away, piece-by-piece.

*

Sam decided that being at the hospital's 24/7 care facility was worse than when he was in the hospital's psychiatric ward with no memories of anything but his name. At least when he was there people treated him with respect and warm smiles, showed him compassion because he was a lost kid with no home. Now, the nurses acted like he was a severely disabled person; some poor man with a damaged mind and a right hand that matched.

The nurses continued to act as if he was too ill-minded to do the most basic of chores, like he was too far-gone to make actual conversation.

"I want Dean," Sam cried, voice choking on air and tears. The care facilitator on duty insisted that Sam needed someone to feed him his meals, even though Dean had been working on getting him to eat with his left hand since the Motel.

"You need to eat, son," the nurse leveled the spoon and brought it to Sam's closed lips only to have him knock it away petulantly. "You need to calm down."

'I am calm, I just want Dean,' Sam wanted to say, but he couldn't find the right words. Being here, surrounded by so many strangers, none of the words he wanted to say seemed to come out right. With Dean not here, reassuring his confidence, he felt less capable. Every time he tried to prove someone wrong, he got so nervous it ended up re-emphasizing the doctor's notions that he was too handicapped to handle anything without help.

"Take one more bite and then you can go play in the gym," The nurse coaxed.

Sam knew that 'playing in the gym' actually meant rehabilitation with rubber balls to test handling control, but he'd take it all the same. Rehabilitation was the one place without Dean where he was able to dictate control – nobody there dictated his day for him. He was able to make his own choices and test his own skills. He needed this moment to prove to everyone that worked there that he was a big boy like Dean said and that he was able to do most things on his own.

*

Three days without Sam felt like a lifetime. When Sam was around he offered more than just presence. He brought with him so much light, and joy, and laughter. Now that he was gone, the motel room felt like a prison cell – dark, dank, and depressing.

Dean reckoned he had two options: bury himself in self-pity and burger wrappers, or get off his ass and figure out a way to get his brother back. The library seemed like the best place to start – that along with the town's city hall – two places Dean swore he'd never ventured freely.

As much as he'd hate to admit his brother was right, research was a highly- valued resource. Besides medical rights, most of the borrowed books stacked in front of him were full of information on custody rights. One interesting paper talked about rights for disabled people – a phrase that irritated Dean to no end. Sam wasn't 'disabled.' He wasn't handicapped or mentally retarded or any phrase that even remotely touched upon his brother being inadequate or incompetent, or lacking in any category. Sam was strong. Strong and beautiful and a better man than Dean could have hoped he'd turn into.

But it didn't matter. That issue pushed aside, if Dean could qualify Sam for insurance under his custody in the form of 'needs for a disabled "minor"' there was only one other hurdle he needed to jump over. That was to get out of _Sunshine Villa_ Motel. Getting out meant they needed an apartment – an apartment meant money, and that of course meant finding an actual job. No more hustling pool or false credit card scams. No, he and Sam needed real money – an actual income that would verify Dean for full custody under any circumstance.

If he could secure himself a real income and hunt down a permanent place to live, they'd be set; he'd have Sam and the two of them would have a home where both of them could stay as long as they wanted to.

Dean missed the first opportunity he had to visit Sam. He loathed himself for it, but it was for the best. He had an interview at the family-owned bakery down the street. The family in charge knew the main points of Dean's situation, having seen the boys come around for donuts every once in a while for breakfast. Not that Dean wanted his ability to get hired based on how much people cared for his sob story, but if it scored him an interview for a job that paid fourteen dollars an hour plus tips, it was worth it.

Now, Dean didn't know anything about baked items besides the fact that they tasted good, but he was willing to learn. Whether it was cashier, busboy, hell - bagel connoisseur, he wanted to be signed up.

His interview was set up for four o'clock. If he nailed it, they were in.

*

Sam was seated in the center of the room amidst the weighted beams and the lifting equipment. One gentle toss at a time, one of the workers would toss a soft, plastic ball towards his belly where sam would catch it with both hands and attempt to throw it back with his damaged one.

"Clench the ball before you toss it back," the man advised, and Sam gritted his teeth and squeezed his fingers tight.

He arched his arm back, getting ready to catapult the ball a far distance. Though when his lax fingers dropped the grip and the ball rolled lamely off his lap and onto the floor, the man across from him just said, 'try again.' Not, 'it's okay, kiddo,' or 'you're still doing great, Sammy, don't get down on yourself,' like Dean would have said if they were doing this at home.

Anger shot through him like something he'd never experienced before. He hated failing, hated looking like a big baby when he couldn't do what people asked of him.

The man tossed the ball back into Sam's lap. "One more time. Concentrate on the weight of the ball in your fingers."

Sam shook his head from side to side, refusing to even look at the ball. He stood up and walked on over to the corner – buried his face against his chest as he sunk down to the floor. For a second time that afternoon the ball rolled across the floor underneath the leg machine.

*

By five o'clock Dean was patting himself on the back. Four days a week, morning to close and Sunday's, while Sam was in physical therapy he was scheduled to work behind the counter, packaging any order that came through.

Morning to close meant five to one. Thirty-two hours a week plus Sunday mornings meant that by the end of the week Dean was looking at a steady half grand, easy. It wasn't a millionaire's salary but it was a steady income. Honest pay he could be proud of and something that would count as a solid down payment on an apartment. One-bedroom apartments weren't hard to come by in a small town like this. _Cheap, _one-bedroom apartments were a different story but with a town population of three thousand in a town where their major attraction of the year was Blueberry Fest in the spring, it was a pretty good bet that the rooms wouldn't be too out of budget.

Visiting hours weren't until tomorrow so he spent his time determined to visit every apartment complex within the area.

The first place wasn't too bad – clean and safe enough, though the only place a bed would fit would be against the double window on the side and Dean knew that having the windows so close to where they slept would be enough to make Sam uneasy. _Jefferson Plaza_, the building Sam had dubbed 'the blue box' upon their numerous drives back and forth from the doctor's was too run-down, even for them. There was no way he was going to have his brother's first house be a place that had tarnished faucet handles and a toilet with a clear ring of brown where the dirty well-water made its mark.

_Runway Bay_ was right off the main highway and even had a fence built around its man-made pond. The place looked almost _too_ nice and Dean drove past it once before heading inside.

The bedroom had one window that was far from the bed. The bathroom was right off the living room and the kitchen – Dean was happy to see – was well-equipped with a hearty stove and a cabinet that even Sam could fit inside.

All they needed was a security deposit of two hundred dollars and monthly rent of seven hundred.

A signed contract had Dean agreeing to no smoking and no pets. After a promise that they'd pay for all the furniture inside once his first paycheck rolled around, he received the key.

Apartment 811 at _Runway Bay _was their new place of residence. The two of them were a family now. They even had an apartment to prove it.

All they needed now was curtains.


	10. Chapter 10

* I'm sorry this took ages for me to write. School consumes my life, unfortunately. The last two chapters will be written this week. I have another story up my sleeve and need to finish this one before I continue on. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for being so patient with the updates.

Either City Hall was a goddamn liar or the County Hospital was full of douchebags.

"Not approved," the administrator repeats for a second time in that same neutral tone. She stares at Dean, no compassion in her face.

"How is it 'not approved'? I'm of age, I'm Sam's legal guardian, I've filed all the necessary paperwork, my income is qualified for – "

"It's your place of work, Mr. Winchester," she sighs like she's all too bored to properly care. "You need to give a current place of business that's been permanent for at least 3 months. Our records state you've only been at," she steals a glance at her computer screen, "_Sauer's Bakery_ for a week. We can't grant your request."

Dean's staring at her, mouth gaping. "You're joking."

She blinks at him. "Sir, if you have anymore questions you're going to have to head to the first floor and speak to one of our representatives – "

But Dean's already turned his back on her. His face is set as he slams through the set of double doors that leads to the flight of stairs. He's not going to file a freaking _complaint _with guest services. No, he's done with waiting, done with playing by the rules.

What he needs is a plan. A surefire way to cover their tracks, a few fake badges, and then, _then_ he's getting Sam the hell out of Dodge.

*

It could be so easy for Dean to blame their father, to blame him for pushing Sam away, for causing the rift that made his brother leave for college, for causing Dean to chase after him, for the entire domino effect that lead to the car accident. If it weren't for Dad, Sam would still be whole.

It would be so easy for Dean to blame his father, problem is he can't get past blaming himself.

If only he had answered his damn cell, hadn't left Sam to begin with, hadn't gotten into the car, hadn't needed Sam by his side in order to feel complete.

How ridiculous to think that an apartment could solve their problems. How stupid to believe that a real job would somehow make them civilians. Why he didn't take Sam and just run, that's what he wants to know. Sam's not the only one that's changed during this whole ordeal, apparently. He'd like to pinpoint the moment he lost his logic, where everything his dad taught him flew out the window; when did he become so careless? When did he become so soft? _Don't get involved with the system. No personal ties, no pieces of identity left behind, no paperwork to be found. _If this were 6 months ago that's exactly what he would have done – grabbed Sam and run like hell, no traces left behind. Running never even crossed his mind, to flee instead of abide by the rules – fleeing was too cowardly, too reckless. If Sam weren't ill it would have been different. His brother deserved more than a continual road trip cross-country and a life based on lies and subterfuge. Sam deserved a home. Love and care - normalcy, routine.

There's no use coming up with a plan to break Sam out. After an hour of thinking, Dean's got nothing, no surefire way to hustle his brother through the guarded doors. So with a 'fuck this,' mumbled under his breath, he's on his way up to Sam's floor. Winging it is their best option. Visiting hours start in five minutes, which means no one will question why he's there. What happens _after_ the initial 'visit' is well beyond Dean's thoughts. Hopelessness for their situation is beginning to morph into determination. Whatever happens he's not leaving without Sam. If they have to unscrew the barricading windows and climb their way down to the first floor on a rope made from knotted bed sheets, then that's what they'll do. Leaving his brother behind isn't an option.

Dean will be Sam's very own personal trainer, rehabilitation worker, live-in nurse, and whatever the hell else he needs him to be. They can do this by themselves. They don't need any other outside help. If Sam needs a therapist, Dean will find one. If Sam needs better pain meds than the stolen ones Dean can supply, well, he'll find a way to get those too. No more hospitals, no more strangers butting in, no more ill treatment and people classifying his brother as 'inept'. This is their life, their time to do it their way – together.

Dean turns the corner, rubber soles of his shoes squeaking abnormally loud against the tile as he enters Sam's room. His heart is in his throat, thumps twice against his adam's apple when his eyes lock on the melancholy white of the hospital gown. It's déjà vu - the memories from six months previous of Sam's broken and bruised body parade across his mind… it's all too much. He'd like to shake away the images but the present is too much the same. Sam's eyes aren't focused on the television screen, just gazing, drifting almost, lids heavy like the task of staying awake is too hard.

_Sam's regressed _is all he can think in a panic. But then he quickly notices the IV in his brother's arm, the bag of clear liquid that connects to the needle that's pushed under his skin. _Or maybe it's just the cocktail of drugs they've been force-feeding him since who knows when._

"Sammy," he says, and it takes a solid hand on Sam's shoulder for unfocused eyes to lock on Dean. It happens again, that look that passes over Sam's face – the same as that day at the park - the look of sheer trying, like he's working to place Dean's face with an actual person; there's knowledge right on the edge of breaking through. Then the fog lifts and the recognition comes; Sam's arms reach out to grasp any part of Dean that he can find. His breath starts to hitch in violent gasps as he pulls him in close and Dean has to hold on tight just to keep from crumbling.

*

Luckily no nurse has come by to bother them. The privacy has given Dean an opportunity to remove the unnecessary needle for his brother's arm, pack up everything within the closet, and steal the extra medical supplies lying around.

They're in no rush to leave. Now that Dean's got Sam settled by his side, safe, warm, alive, _sedated, _there's no reason to make a mad dash to the front door. They need to wait until the edge of the drugs fade, and besides, if they're making a break for it running is out of the question. Even on a good day they'd have to go slow. With the added narcotics Dean will be lucky if he can get Sam into a standing position long enough to haul him into a wheelchair.

The room is tiny but not cold like he had pictured. Sam's got Dean nestled against his body. They're side-by-side on the hospital bed and the way Dean's being cuddled by his brother's giant hands feels almost backwards - but not unpleasant. He doesn't push away the contact. He'll let Sam mold and shape him into any position he likes. A calming serenity washes over his body and it's all because of his brother's presence. No matter the situation or the negative circumstances that come their way, if Sam is near then Dean will cope.

Sam hasn't said much, refuses to answer any question Dean shoots his way. He mumbles from time to time when the moment strikes him. He's talked in placid tones about the hospital food – how the jell-o is his favorite, the way the maple tree leaves flutter against his window, how he knew that today was the day Dean was coming, how he'd dreamt it while he was awake. His voice is muted; each word dragged out with deliberate precision like his brain is trying to process through old mud, like he's coming up with random anecdotes to shield both of them from the truth of the situation. Why they've sedated him, Dean has no clue. They hadn't even drugged him this much after the initial shock of the accident wore off.

"What have they been doing to you, Sammy?" He asks against his brother's cheek and Sam lazily nuzzles back, squishes Dean even closer to his chest like a favorite rag doll. "They haven't been doing stuff to you, have they? Do you feel dizzy? Do you know what's in this IV bag? Sam?"

"Don't leave," Sam breathes, barely above a whisper and his eyes drift shut.

Dean sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose to keep the stress headache from settling in. He affectionately grabs hold of his brother's hand, brings the deformed knuckles up to his lips and kisses each one. "I won't leave," he whispers. "Everything is going to be okay."

He can feel Sam slump against him.

He can feel Sam let go of the last threads of strength he'd been holding on to

*

It doesn't take long for Dean's entire torso to fall asleep. Sam's weight is draped across him like a heavy blanket. He shimmies out from underneath Sam's body, and thanks to the sedation his brother doesn't wake.

The time is getting closer to when the nurses wheel in the dinner cart. That's their cue. As soon as Sam has his food and the last nurse leaves, that's when mission-escape-from-country-hospital begins. Dean saunters down the hallway to check out the lay of the land, to get a better feeling for what door to escape out of. He feels foolish now for stowing a hand pistol in his back pocket; it's not like he's going to shoot anyone that stands in the way, not in a hospital, not when there's people around. Then again, a good threat never hurt.

By the time Dean returns from the cafeteria, coffee in hand, the voices streaming down the hall make it apparent that Sam is no longer alone. He's thinking it's one of the hot, young nurses with the evening food service until he hears an older lady's gruff vibrato. The chastising anger in her voice along with a loud _bang_ has Dean speeding his pace.

"You're acting like a damn child!" He hears her snap. He enters the doorway in time to see Sam recoil his entire body away from her gaze; his eyes wet with unshed tears. "How many times have I told you to not touch the pitcher or water!"

"Hey!" Dean cuts her off, his voice full of hatred. "Don't you dare yell at him like that, can't you see you're scaring him." His eyes narrow at her only momentarily before he walks towards his brother and gently climbs onto the bed next to Sam's side. His arms open up an invitation and his brother takes to the comfort like a fish in need of water. He curls into Dean's chest, head bowed; the slight tremor of his body has Dean rocking back and forth with the motion.

Dean glares at the nurse, tries his hardest to burn holes into her crabby face. If this is what they've been doing to Sam all along – if this is the treatment he's been receiving – he's going to loose it, big time. "Is this the way everyone's been acting towards him the whole time? You just walk around yelling at your patients?"

She glares back at him, the face of a toad. "We deal with _disruptive_ patients all the time, son. Though we will not stand for patients who are _uncooperative_ and _ill-mannered."_

"Because he dropped the fucking water pitcher he's 'ill-mannered'?" he shouts.

"Oh," she smiles, way too sweetly, "I can see where he gets his temper from. You hang around with the wrong crowd long enough – disabled or not – you turn into to the same type of person."

"He's not _disabled, _okay?" His right hand comes to cup Sam's face, to shield him away from rest of the world. "And why the hell was he so sedated? It's like he's been pumped full of narcotics."

"When patients aren't compliant we need a way to calm them down." And with that she leaves the room, the dirty dishrag used to clean up the spilled water drips a path that follows her out.

Dean turns to Sam, takes in his appearance and tries to calm he surges of rage that are coursing through his body. He lifts up his brother's face, kisses away the tears on his eyelashes. "Sammy," he sighs.

"I don't know what I did wrong," Sam mumbles, eyes shining in the glow of the bright hospital lights. "They don't understand me. They don't," he sniffs, "they don't think I can do _anything_, Dean. They think I'm stupid."

"Who cares what they think, Sammy? _I_ know you. And I know you can do tons of things, things I can't even do," he smiles, a smile just for Sam. "We don't need them. And that's why we're getting out of here."

"What?"

"I'm breaking you out, kid. No more hospitals, no more hospital visits, no more suck-ass nurses, no more disgusting hospital food, just you and me, how's that sound?" He can tell Sam is trying to calculate through the drug fog, he can see the wheels turning. "I bought us a place to live, Sam," he says with added emphasis. "You're coming to live with me. You and me. We have our very own place."

"Wait… we have a house?" Sam says, and Dean smiles at the spreading grin on his brother's face.

"We have a house."

*

For all the potential "planning" spent on the nerve-wracking breakout, getting Sam out of the hospital seemingly _unseen_ is ridiculously easy.

Sam is dressed in his street clothes being wheeled out the side door that leads to the 'family of patients' parking lot with Dean – who looks, apparently legit with a random fake ID tag clipped to his leather jacket. No one asks any questions; no one sounds the alarm. In less than ten minutes Sam is sitting passenger side with Dean bellowing out rock tunes with the windows rolled down.

Dean's got the ball of his foot pressed hard against the gas pedal. As long as they aren't being followed as they speed down the road, no one will ever come looking. Dean never got far enough into the hospital's paperwork to put down a place of residence, luckily. They can fly under the radar, they've done it before.

*

The steady rev of the engine is lulling them both into a sleepy haze, though when the sight of the pond and the well-kept paneling of the apartment complex come into view, Sam's eyes fly open.

"Dean!" He says, sitting up straighter in the seat, "This place even has a lake!"

"I know, man," Dean says with a chuckle, "home sweet home."

"Wow," Sam says and his voice is full of awe.

He wishes the look on Sam's face would stay plastered there forever. He reaches over after the car is parked and ruffles Sam's hair. The wheelchair is still stowed in the backseat, but this time they don't need it. He's using his own strength as a leverage to get his brother up the steps – any excuse to hold him close.

The apartment is inviting: warm, clean, _theirs_ – everything they've never had. The scattered lamps of the sitting room cast a pale glow that highlights the gleam of the pristine kitchen countertops.

Sam groggily limps down the hall to the back of their place, like he instinctively knows that the bedroom is calling. Dean deadbolts the door, takes off his boots and follows behind.

"Sleepy," Sam says rubbing his eyes. His t-shirt is half on, eyes half closed. He's blinking furiously just to keep himself from falling asleep and toppling over.

"Get in your new bed then," Dean says pulling Sam's shirt off all the way. He's too damn tired to do much else, just shucks off his jeans and climbs in next to his brother. Sam is already cozying up to the new, crisp sheets and he's sure their expressions are identical: exhausted, happy, thankful. Dean likes the look of their queen bed; the way Sam isn't engulfing the entire width. The extra inches of mattress look more alluring now, like there's actual room to fit. And just when he's thinking there's going to be enough space where they won't bump against each other throughout the night, Sam pulls him in close, jabs his knee hard against the back of Dean's thigh before sliding up against him.

"Nigh' Dee," Sam says against his ear and the slur of the name has Dean smiling against his pillow.

He has his family again, his best friend, the only person in his life he's ever needed. They're in a house, a place that they own, a place _all_ their own, a queen bed, un-used sheets, curtains on the windows and actual food in the fridge. Dean doesn't know whether to laugh or cry so instead he arches back against Sam's warm chest and lets the weight of the world roll off his shoulders.


	11. Chapter 11

*

"Dean."

Dean is instantly awake. Years of practice have made him capable of being attentive even in the early hours of the morning. "Nightmare?" he asks out of habit.

"No," he hears Sam sigh.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm really not going back to the hospital, am I? I don't wanna leave."

Dean turns on his side. He can barely see the outline of Sam's face with the soft rays of early sun peeking through the window "Sam," he groans, "it's five in the morning, dude."

"If I don't have to go back there I'll be so happy, Dean, you don't even know."

"I promise. I'm not taking you back there. You're stuck with me."

"I'm stuck with you," Sam repeats slowly and he puffs out a breath of laughter against Dean's face. "I like being stuck with you."

"Yeah, well, right back at ya." Dean says once see's the outline of his brother's smile, "Alright, I'm going back to bed and that means you too. It's too damn early to be up."

"I miss you," Sam whispers and his face lingers close.

"I'm right here, Sammy."

"No," Sam moans, "miss this," he says, and then slips his hands under Dean's shirt. He rubs circles across his chest. "Kiss?" He asks, though he dives right in without permission and Dean can't find it in his will to say 'no.' Their lips interlock, soft skin against soft skin and somewhere between the lazy contact they fall back into the rhythm of sleep.

*

Waking up for work in the morning is the weirdest thing in the world. The sound of the alarm goes off, Sam stirs beside him, and it takes a few days for Dean to stop clutching the knife under his pillow.

It's a blessing, really, that the whole bakery thing happened. The pay is nice and the location couldn't be better. The family that runs the place is a stroke of luck as well – they understand the situation and because they find Sam _oh so adorable_, they aren't hard on Dean when he has to take a second lunch break one afternoon just to run home when his brother calls from the apartment in a panic. Sam's not doing perfect but Dean wouldn't want him flawless anyhow. They're both going through the days the best way they know how and Dean couldn't be more proud. In an odd sort of way, Sam seems to have grown up overnight. The little-kid comprehension has now changed into a more mature mindset and though it's more than apparent that Sam is never going to have the capacity of a "normal" adult – _whatever "normal" is_ – he's now more than capable of handling a whole day at home by himself.

While Dean's at work, Sam's at home – sometimes sleeping, sometimes tidying, _most _of the time reading. He's reverted back to his original fixation on books. Anything from a library, whether it's bound in a leather cover or held together by a broken binding has become Sam's new love. The books keep him occupied and make being alone while Dean's at work more bearable, hell, practically enjoyable. Every day Dean comes home from work to find a clean house: the bed is made, the dishes are washed, and there is Sam – sprawled out across the length of the sofa with a scattered pile of novels below him on the floor and a pitcher of cherry Kool-Aid on the table. The fact that Sam hasn't complained once about Dean leaving for work is a giant leap in the right direction on the path towards his brother's recovery.

It's the mature look on Sam's face now, the way he's stopped sucking his thumb at night, the way he looks at Dean and Dean can _swear_ he sees his Sammy buried inside there, closer to the surface, more now than ever before. Something is happening in his brother's crazy head and whatever it is, Dean is grateful. Sam may not ever mature past the mind frame of a 16-year-old, but Sam at 16 is a hell of a lot smarter than most people at 30.

His brother has become a reliable weight of happiness in Dean's life and Dean is falling hard.

*

The childlike inhibitions may be gone but Sam's perception on life is still just as beautiful. Dean will look at something and see it as a pointless pile of trash; Sam will smile at the same scene with a sense of awe, like it's a secret language only he understands.

"You're remarkable, you know that?" Dean says one afternoon when they're seated outside. They're parallel to each other, shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee; Sam steals a bite of Dean's sandwich when he's not looking. The air flutters his bangs into his eyes.

"I'm remarkable?" he asks around a mouthful. "How?"

"I dunno, man. Your view on things I guess. The way you look at life, the way you look at _me_," he sighs. "Fuck, Sam. I just… you want to go to the beach?"

"What?" Sam looks at him incredulously but the smile couldn't be clearer.

"It's my day off, we've been here for almost a week and we still haven't left the apartment."

"Do you think I'll like it?"

"I think you'll _love_ it."

"We've been to the beach. Once, I think."

"No we haven't, not here."

"No, I mean a long time ago." He wipes his mouth off on Dean's sleeve then turns to stare out into the distance. "It was near a bridge, I think, a big red bridge that looked like a caterpillar if you turned your head upside down and stared for a while. You helped me build a fort. We had twigs and motes and people that sailed on maple leaves. The water was dark blue and the sun made your nose freckle."

"How do you… are you getting more flashbacks?"

Sam shrugs like it's no big deal if he is or isn't. "Can we pack more sandwiches for the ride over? No strawberry this time, Dean, only grape. And don't pretend like you're not allergic 'cuz I know you are." With that he gets up to his feet, dusts the crumbs off his jeans and opens the screen door that leads to the stairwell of their apartment.

Dean pauses for a moment, stares off into the clouds.

Faded memories meant that Sam would never leave, that was the greatest irony of it all. But with no sense of a true self he would never have his Sam back.

His brother's memories are coming back; the faded edges are starting to take shape. As awful as it sounds, the worry in Dean's gut grows stronger each time Sam remembers. The fear boils down to two things: the fear of Sam learning the truth – of finally discovering the truth, that they're brothers, that Dean's infatuations are wrong and selfish, that the relationship they have is something that needs to be hidden in the dark – and, of course, the fear that Sam will leave when he finds out.

Dean is going to hide the 'brother card' for as long as possible. It isn't that _he's _ashamed. No. It's that Sam will be. The disgrace of Dean's feelings is swiftly leaving, has been for a while now. There is no more disgust; there is no holding back. Loosing Sam that second time around was a wake-up call. Those seven days Sam spent in the hospital were like torture.

*

The beach isn't warm, but it's beautiful. The sun peaks out from behind the clouded sky, pillow-like tuffs of white, and Sam swears that one of the clouds looks like a bunny wearing a top hat. He tells Dean this and Dean chuckles loudly, warm and content, and Sam leans in to the feel of Dean's hand on his face.

There's a sudden flash of light, a white house, a crooked tree, and baby's crib - so faint but distracting all the same. Sam shakes his head a little, tries to unhinge the vision, but Dean notices. Dean _always_ notices.

"Memory?" he asks.

"No," Sam lies. He knows that Dean knows he's lying but neither of them says anything.

Dean's barefoot; feet planted a few inches into the water. His toes squish into the depth of the sand. It's all so beautiful – the water, the sand, the bunny cloud, his Dean.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't want you to worry." He pauses for a moment, sticks his feet into the sand with calculated precision.

"… Worry about what?"

"Everything you've been worrying about."

"Like…"

"Like everything."

"Uh, more specific please," he quips.

Sam sighs. He takes his gaze off the pebbles in the water and squints down into Dean's eyes. "I know that I'm different now," he begins.

Dean cuts him off with a, "_Sammy_ – "

"I know I'm different now," Sam repeats even louder, "that things are different, but I want you to know that it's still me in here. I'm still here." He can see Dean's jaw clench; he can see the way he swallows the emotion to stop the pain from showing. "I'm still your Sammy," he says in a quiet, gentler tone, "and you don't have to worry because I'm not going anywhere."

Dean looks at him, only for a second before looking away.

"It's still me, Dean. I'm still me."

"I know," he quickly smiles. And though Dean turns his head to the side and clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure, Sam can't pretend that he didn't see the tears. "It's just hard," he says, eyes downcast. "Missing you when you're right here."

The silence after those words lasts for minutes. But then Sam takes one step forward and slides up against Dean's chest. He rests his chin atop Dean's head and encircles his waist in a fierce grip. Dean stiffens at first but then eases into the contact. His head finally drops down to rest on Sam's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers against sun-kissed hair.

"Me too," he whispers back.

"I'm trying."

"Nothin' more I can ask for." He feels Dean start to pull away but then he hesitates and presses close again. "We'll take it one day at a time," he sighs.

Sam nods like he understands. He'll hold him close until he can feel the pain stop.

*

At 3:00 AM Dean gets woken up by his bladder. He closes his eyes and pretends that he doesn't have to move; Sam is latched around him like a spider monkey and the warmth of the blankets along with the heat from his brother's body feels so good that he'd almost rather hold it in until morning instead of leave the comfort of his bed. But his body eventually wins and Dean, grumbling, unlatches Sam's limbs and trudges to the bathroom, skin prickling when the chill night air hits his bare arms.

He's finishing up, is about shove open the door when he hears a panicked 'gasp' and a hysterical yell of, "DEAN!"

"What?" Dean shouts and runs back into the room only to collide with the oversized bed frame. "_Fuck," _he hisses, bouncing on one foot and grabbing the other. "Shit."

"You're still here," Sam says and his face lights up.

"Of course I am," Dean groans, "where else would I be?"

"You okay?"

"No," he grumbles. "I think I just broke my goddamn toe. Why the hell were you shouting?"

"I didn't know where you were."

"I was taking a piss, man. Jesus. You scared the hell out of me."

"Sorry," Sam says, but his heart continues to beat fast. His fists are clenched in the rumpled sheets and his eyes are uncharacteristically round. "I thought you left," he repeats again.

"To pee, yeah." He limps to his side of the bed, winces slightly when he crawls under the covers. "What's wrong with you?"

"I thought… I thought maybe you finally left for good."

"Sam," Dean sighs. "This has got to stop."

"I know," Sam cringes. "I'm know, I'm sorry."

"I told you I'm not leaving."

"I know."

"And I mean it."

"I know you do, _I do_," he adds when Dean looks skeptical. "I'm sorry. I can't help it but sometimes… man, sometimes I think that I'll wake up and you won't be here."

"That's never going to happen. I mean, yeah, if I have to piss or something, or I have to be at work early, but you always know where I'm at. I can't be latched to your hip all the time, Sammy."

Sam sighs and flops down lower on the mattress. His face is set, lips pursed, eyes starring holes into the ceiling.

"What's with the face?"

"Just upset," he huffs.

"With me?"

"No, with myself. I can't… pour my own juice, Dean, I can't… drive the car, I can't help you with work, my hand its…" he looks at his deformed hand and shakes his head, "I can't even be alone at night without being scared," he hisses with disdain, fist pounding against the bed. "I'm totally useless," he mutters under his breath.

"Hey," Dean shouts, and his voice is so gruff that Sam looks up. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that."

Sam goes back to staring at the ceiling; he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something else.

Dean groans as he flips on his side. He kicks off all the covers in a fit, then hastily pulls them back on. He suddenly flips back over on his other side facing Sam. "There's something I think you should know."

"What?"

"Do you remember how you ended up at the hospital, on that first day I found you? How, you know, everything happened? The reason for this?" He touches the scar that runs up the back of his brother's head, the scar that would be visible if Sam's shaggy hair didn't cover up the proof.

"Not really… why?"

"We were in a car crash, Sammy," he blurts out. "We got hit, my car started to roll and I got thrown from the car and you, well," he nervously scratches the back of his head, "you must've hit your head pretty hard when we finally stopped rolling." Sam just stares so Dean continues on. "You were trying to get a new start on a new life somewhere else, _away from me_, and I panicked. Man, I panicked," he shakes his head, closes his eyes. "I got in the car," he breathes, "and I drove as fast as I could, looking everywhere to find you, to bring you back home with me. That's when you got in the car, and right after that is when we crashed." It comes out like a confession – each word tumbling out after the next.

It takes a moment for Sam to think. "Why would I do that?"

"Do what, Sammy? Leave? It doesn't matter. You didn't do anything wrong,_ I_ did. It's my fault. I couldn't let you go. I couldn't let you go because I'm pathetic and selfish and needy, and it's because of me you're sick. It's my fault that your hand is busted up, it's my fault that you had to go back to the hospital, so if you're gonna blame anyone, blame me. It's been my fault – "

"No it's not, it's not, Dean. I don't know why I left but I don't blame you for coming after me."

"You don't even remember_, _Sam, so you can't forgive me."

"I went with you, didn't I? _I_ got into the car. I may not know what happened but I know what I would've done if I were you and you had left."

"And what's that, Sam?" he asks sarcastically.

"The same thing, Dean," he says. "I would've done the same damn thing."

Dean stays quiet. He doesn't fight the words. There's nothing he can say to make any of this right. The only sound is the steady pulse of Sam's loud breathing and the water heater kicking on near the kitchen.

"Say something," Sam presses.

Dean switches on the light. He turns to look at Sam and the look in his own eyes is that of a broken man. "When you told me you wanted to leave and I saw you walk out that door I couldn't take it, Sammy. I couldn't let you go." His voice sounds broken, his face full of guilt. He's trying to apologize, the best way he knows how, but to Sam there's nothing to apologize for.

"I know you don't believe me," Sam starts and it's all he can do to convince him with the genuine truth in his eyes, "but I wouldn't have be able to let you go either. You and me, Dean. You've always told me that. Just you and me."

Dean puffs out the breath he's been holding. "You and me," he sighs.

"You and me," Sam repeats with a nod.

There's eager determination etched in every feature of his little brother's face. It's so endearing, so _Sam_ that Dean can't help but believe it.

*

Dean once thought he needed John. After the crash, when Sam was so lost in his own mind, Dean almost prayed for their dad to pick up the damn phone, to come aid him in the fight of getting Sam better. Sometimes at night, in those first few weeks, Dean would silently cry next to Sam's hospital bed, hand covering his mouth to not let Sam hear him.

But everything has changed. It wouldn't be easier to have their dad there it'd only be more confusing. The dynamic he and Sam now have is special - something that's unwelcome by outside intruders.

It queen bed of their apartment feels like a statement of proof, like what they have is actually valuable and genuine. The crazy part of him wants to shout to everyone to come look at the wonderful thing they have, to challenge anyone to say different. The _really_ crazy part of him wants to call John and flaunt the relationship he has with Sam. To infuriate him with a running narrative of the nights where Sam is plastered to his chest, octopus arms wrapped solidly around his waist, the two of them making out like horny teenagers – Sam using his teeth to show he'll never get enough.

Pissing their dad off would somehow bring Dean satisfaction. Though, if he ever told John it would be a suicide mission. He didn't know which would tick John off more: him kissing Sam to sleep every night, or the fact that hunting had taken a back seat for the past seven months.

Something in Dean has changed. Not that he's a different man with a different set of morals, but with what happened some priorities have taken a back seat.

Does he miss hunting? Of course, he does, there's no question there. He'd love to get back in the saddle, scan the local paper for something to track down and shoot. Thing is, it's not practical. He's main concern is Sam – always has been. And just because he has a steady income and a mortgage doesn't mean his life has to be absent of hunting. Hunting has to be absent only until everything starts to become stable again. When Sam is ready, when Dean can find a hunt that's elementary school level – nothing that he couldn't handle in his sleep, no chance of error, no risk involved – then, and only then, will his past life be able to make a triumphant return. The family business can continue on and Dean can take all his anger out on some son of a bitch in need of a beat-down.

Dean comes home from work one day to find Sam lying on the sofa, newspaper in hand.

"Newspaper?" Dean asks from the doorway and Sam flips his head upside down to smile at him.

"Thought I'd change it up a bit. Did you know that this town is totally crazy?"

"Everyone's nuts," Dean says and Sam nods in agreement.

"There's even this one kid that lives near your bakery and he got attacked by this lady but the lady wasn't even there."

"Where was she?"

"Dead," Sam states without much concern.

"Give that to me," Dean says with a scowl and scans the entire story while Sam gets up to grab some chips from the cabinet. "Huh," Dean muses as he reads the details. The evidence that this story involves something supernatural is pretty knock-you-over-the-head obvious. It's a low-level hunt, a pathetic poltergeist on a piss poor revenge kick.

"Totally insane, right?" Sam says around a mouthful of chips.

"Like I said," Dean smiles, "everyone's nuts."

*

Their daily routine goes on like normal but Dean can't shake the prospect of a hunt. A local hunt, a violent spirit that could be snuffed out in ten minutes flat, it's driving him crazy. It feels wrong to let something like this slide when it so easily could be stopped; not only that, but he's itching to light something on fire.

The adrenaline that comes with just _thinking_ about the possible hunt has Dean's blood plumping faster than it has in a while. _'Okay,'_ Dean finally decides later that night, like it was even a choice, _"I'm going."_

"Sammy," he calls from the bedroom while his brother's finishing up dinner, "I have to run out for an hour. You need anything while I'm gone?" He can hear Sam laugh at something on TV. "_Sammy,"_ he shouts.

"What?"

"I'm heading out for an hour," he repeats again, stepping into the kitchen. "You need anything before I leave?"

"Where are you going?"

"The store."

"Grocery store?"

"…Yeah."

"For what?"

"Just need to pick up a few things for work tomorrow," Dean shrugs.

"Yeah?" Sam asks and he turns to stare at Dean with a look that pierces through the bullshit lie. "Like what kind of stuff?"

"Bakery supplies," Dean stutters stupidly.

"Bakery supplies," Sam repeats slowly. "Hmm… that's funny, I though the owners were in charge of that sort of thing."

"They just need me to pick up some stuff, Sam, _god_. Why do you even care anyways? Did you take your medicine?" He adds as an attempt to change the subject.

Sam lets out a frustrated sigh. "I already told you to quit asking me that."

"Why?"

"Because," he snaps.

"Because of what?" Dean says starting to get heated. "Did you take your medicine today? Yes or no?"

"Look, I get that you wanna take care of me but I don't need taking care of. I'm a big boy, Dean, all right? I can handle taking a few pills each day even if you don't think so." His eyes narrow before he slams his chair against the table as he heads over to the sink.

"And now you're pissed at me because…?"

"Because you," he throws his plate into the sink, "keep treating me," he slams the drawer shut, "like a goddamn kid. Like a little kid that needs looking after all hours of the day, every day."

"Well excuse me for not realizing you're suddenly so mature now, Sam."

"Whatever, Dean. You know what? Next time, do me a favor. Don't lie to me, okay? You don't want me to come with you on your _oh so secret trip_, then fine, but don't treat me like an idiot." And with that he's shoving past Dean and heading toward their bedroom, the sound of the slamming door echoing loudly throughout every room of the apartment.

*

Dean tapes a note to the inside of the door.

_ Sammy,_

_ Trust me, you wouldn't want to come with even if you knew. I'll be back in an hour, if you need me call the cell. Don't leave._

The place where the kid got strangled by the telephone cord is an abandoned shack of a house, splintered piles of wood and discarded metal scattered throughout the yard. The house belongs to old lady Bresch – some elderly woman that died a week or two earlier, someone who, apparently, doesn't like trespassers on her property. She lived alone with nothing of value left behind and because her body was cremated and the cemetery had nothing to offer, Dean's now breaking into her place of residence, searching for any piece of remains that can be torched.

'_Find some piece of Mrs. Bresch, torch the bitch, head home.'_

The inside is a mess. It smells like old people and rotten food, there's cat memorabilia everywhere, and Dean's biggest fear is falling through the molded floorboards that lead upstairs.

"Ugh," Dean leans away from the right side of the banister when he sees a thick rat's tail escape through one of the holes in the wall. There's a creaking sound that comes from the bottom of the staircase and Dean swiftly pivots around with the gun pointed low. He waits for a moment, frozen in position on the stairs. "Mrs. Bresch," he pauses. "Is that you?" He peaks his head around the corner but no ones there. "Alright," he says to himself, "you're gonna have to show yourself sooner or later."

It shouldn't be this easy. Dean's walking through the upstairs, heading to the woman's bedroom like it's no big deal. There's nothing stopping him or even putting up a fight. His gun is ready; his entire body on alert, and as paranoid as it sounds Dean feels like something is following his every move.

There's another soft _bang_ that sounds from behind him as he enters the room, and just as Dean turns to see where the noise came from, something hits him from the front, sending him stumbling hard into the wooden frame of the door.

Dean hears a gasp of breath as he regains his bearings, head piercing painfully in rhythm with his heartbeat. He dodges the lamp that's now sailing through the air, reaches for his gun but there's no one to shoot. Instead he swiftly grabs the lighter in his pocket and scans the content of the room for an object to burn, something of the old woman's that has enough remains left to count. The temperature in the room is plummeting fast, the EMF meter in his pocket whistling like a warning.

'_And here comes round two,' _Dean thinks.

On cue, there's a _whoosh_ of noise and Dean can feel all the air expel from his lungs as he gets pinned against the wall next to the dresser. He takes a breath, but little oxygen goes in. The room is starting to go dim; the lack of oxygen mixing with the bump on his head has the room spinning like a merry-go-round. With a shaking hand, fighting the strength of the thing that's holding him back, the tips of his fingers grip the handle of a hairbrush and with hurried hands he's clicking on the lighter. After a quick moment the fire-immersed brush explodes into blue sparks.

"Oh my god," He hears someone breathe from beside him as his body slumps back into its regular position, free from the grips of the now-extinct spirit. His eyes whirl around to the threshold of the door and standing there, wide-eyed and terrified, is Sam.

"Sammy, what the hell?" Dean shouts when oxygen swarms into his lungs but Sam slowly backs away, mouth open as he gulps in his own breaths of air. "Dammit, Sam," he wheezes, "why are you here? How the hell did you get here?"

"I remember," Sam whispers, eyes staring at the floor and the tears start to trickle down his cheeks. "Dean, I remember," he says in a choked sob and his body shakes with each breath he inhales.

"Breathe, Sam," Dean coaxes. He tries to grip his arm to help him stand, but Sam shakes his head and hastily backs away towards stairs. "Sam…?"

"I don't want to be here," he says weakly as if in a trance, body teetering on the top step. "I gotta get out of here," he chokes.

"Sam!" Dean shouts when he brother takes off in a sprint towards the front door. He takes the stairs two at time, each foot pounding hard on the weak foundation, following Sam on a foot chase out of the house.

*

He sees the blue flames engulf the hairbrush and as if in a sci-fi movie, all memories about the supernatural hit him at once like a sharp uppercut to the stomach. He can't breathe, he can't move. All he can smell is salt and fire. He remembers hunting, knives, salt rounds, guns, training, sparring, running, killing, demons, corpses, grave sites, and spirits – the door of truth flings wide open and Sam doesn't know if he wants to step inside.

His body is spinning with the new images in his mind, the smell of the burnt hairbrush causing the bile to rise.

His brother is staring at him, _his brother, _and Sam can feel his heart constrict. It all makes sense now, yet it makes no sense at all and for a moment Sam can't decide if his body wants to throw-up, faint or die, so instead he sprints to the staircase and takes the steps in giant leaps in an attempt to run as far away as possible. 

*

Dean catches him about a block up the road. His bad leg doesn't give him the strength he needs to properly run but Sam's still so unsteady that by the time a few minutes have passed, Sam's legs have given out completely and his kid brother is swaying as he limply trots, stumbling only just to give up and collapse against the asphalt of the street.

"Sammy," Dean pants, slowing to a jog when he gets nearer. He scoops Sam up in his arms with a grunt and pulls him up onto the curb. He collapses down beside him, on the grass of someone's lawn.

"So let me guess," Dean starts as he grips Sam in a tight embrace. His head hurts like hell but he tries to hold it together. "You snuck out the fire escape, hid in the backseat of my car, and followed me all the way here."

"I saw an address," Sam breathes heavily. "It was sticking out of your duffle while you were in the shower." His eyes are staring at the middle of the pavement, his entire body shaking from head to toe. "I thought you were meeting a girlfriend or something, that's why you didn't want me with."

"A girlfriend?" Dean says with a chuckle, but Sam doesn't smile back. His brother couldn't look more downhearted and Dean knows it's time to stop the small talk. "What you saw back there, Sammy, let me explain."

"I kill people," Sam says.

"No – "

"Wekill people."

"We kill monsters, Sam, creatures, _things, _it's not the same."

"What are we?"

Dean swallows. "We're hunters. We hunt the supernatural, all the bad things I promised you didn't exist," he says with a frown.

"Hunters," Sam repeats, and then gets lost in contemplation. His body slumps even further forward and Dean tucks him in closer to his side. More memories come back to the present and the final missing pieces start to finally fit together. "I remember it, Dean," he mutters in a small voice, "every hunt. The fire, the motels, the feel of a gun in my hands." He brings a hand up to his mouth, wipes away the tears from his lips. "I remember you, me and dad hunting that witch in Tallahassee," he smiles to himself as if it's a fond memory. "You're my brother," Sam states and he laughs like it's something funny. His emotions are confused, dimples shining with his smile as heavy tears roll down in tortured drops.

The silence is full of anguish, and then Sam's breath starts to hitch again. "Why didn't you tell me?" he gasps.

"Why do you think?" Dean responds and the look in his eye mirrors that of his brother's.

"God," Sam moans and he scrubs a hand over his face. "All this time I had the answers sitting right in front of me and I never saw it."

"I'm sorry," Dean says and all the harboring guilt of the past 7 months claws at his chest.

"I should have known, you know? Of all the people in the world, of course you'd be my brother. No body better to do the job," he smiles sadly.

"Don't say that."

"I don't know what I would've down without you, man."

"You would've been better off, that's for sure. Fuck, Sam," he copies Sam's motion from before, rubs his hands roughly over his face. "I don't know what the fuck happened."

"How what happened?"

"Just don't think that I took advantage of you, 'cause I swear I'd never do that. I had no idea we'd end up like this. I didn't mean for it to go this far, but I couldn't stop it, I tried to stop it, I swear," he chokes, "but god help me, I couldn't tell you 'no'," he says with a tortured sigh. "I couldn't even stop myself."

"You didn't tell me you're my brother because of what we do?" He wipes an arm across his nose and sniffs. "I don't care what the hell we are, Dean, we're still us."

Dean stays silent, head buried in his hands.

"It doesn't matter to you and it doesn't matter to me. I'm almost sure I've known all along anyways," Sam says, practically to himself. "It just was buried too deep that I couldn't get through." His gaze focuses down to Dean, the way his brother is now silently crying into his hands. "Dean," Sam calls with a rough shove to his brother's side, "would you just listen to me, dammit? I said it doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything, do you hear me?"

But Dean only looks up at him with the same self-loathing, self-hating inner doubt from before. "How am I supposed to believe that when you're eyes are all red and you look scared shitless."

"Remembering hunting scares me shitless, not this, not you, you moron," Sam smiles and this time it reaches his eyes. "If you had told me 'no' I would've done it anyways, right? This is the first time you've ever over-thought anything and for once it's totally pointless."

"How does the fact that we're brothers not change anything for you?"

"What, you want me to run to the hills, cleanse my soul of these _bad, sinful feelings?"_

"No," Dean finally smiles. "I dunno. Maybe."

"You're an idiot," Sam says but he curls a hand around Dean's upper thigh.

"I'm an idiot?" Dean snorts and wipes the tears from his eyes. "I wouldn't be talking, Sammy. 7 months and just now you're remembering who I am?" He shakes his head in disapproval. "Pretty slow."

"Hey, at least it happened," Sam says and there's truth behind every word.

"Come on." Dean gets to his feet after a minute, "Let's go before somebody calls the cops." He holds out a hand for Sam to grasp and with that, the gesture is like a binding on the conversation, a sealed contract that everything they said holds true from now until forever.

*

Dean's lying in bed, icepack resting over his eyes, and Sam comes out of the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from his lips, laughing to himself.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Dean asks, lifting the ice.

"Nothin'," Sam smiles. He spits into the sink. After he switches off the light the laughter starts all over again.

"Seriously, Sam, you're like completely crazy."

"I am not," he chuckles and scoots Dean further over on the bed. He picks the icepack off of Dean's face and looks down at him with something close to adoration.

"What?" Dean asks, one eye squinted open.

"You bought me a house."

"_That's_ why you're laughing?"

"And you have a job."

"Which I have to get up for in a few hours."

"It's just, not like you, to live like this. You really did all this for me, didn't you?"

Dean sighs. He tries to avert his gaze; the look that Sam's giving him is too much to take in.

"I just want you to know that I'm thankful. For everything. I honestly couldn't have gotten through all this without you, Dean." His lips bend down to meet Dean's mouth but his brother turns his head to the side. "What was that for?"

"Stop acting all 'touchy-touchy hormonal girlfriend'."

"Nice."

"I'm just sayin'."

"I was just saying 'thanks'."

"I know, but now that your _you_ it's all weird."

"Oh god, get over yourself. If I'm acting like a girl then you're acting like a nervous virgin."

Dean tries to ignore the jab, the fact that he is actually terrified. "What happened to my quiet Sammy?" Dean mutters with his eyes still shut. "It was so much nicer when you were all needy and confused and didn't talk all the time."

Sam barks out a laugh and goes to smack Dean in the head with the icepack but his brother blocks the shot.

Dean stifles a yawn and Sam yawns in response. "Tired," he mumbles.

"Long day," Sam agrees. He cozies up to the underside of Dean's chin, tucks his face into the crook of his neck. "I think this is the best place we've ever lived at. Even better than dad's friend's cabin in the woods."

"I think so too," Dean says with a tight hug to his brother's waist. "Night, Sammy." He kisses his brother's temple. "Feels fucking great to have you back, man." He leans his head back against the pillow, this is how it was supposed to be all along: Sam drooling onto his t-shirt, sprawled out like a heating blanket across his body and what it is, is familiar. And they know each other, better than any other two people in the world.

Sam will forever have the random faded memories, the visions of the past that sometimes interfere with his dreams at night. He'll always have to take things slow, not run as fast. His hand will never truly heal. But he'd never trade it. Who he is now makes sense. With Dean in his life, the definition of himself is finally justifiable. The weight of the world doesn't seem as heavy, the dark-filled nights don't seem as fearful.

He clutches Dean while they sleep and Dean holds him in his arms just as tight.

Sam knows that his brother will always watch out for him, that neither of them will ever leave, and because of this, he's happy.

The End.

Thank you so much for reading, feedback is really appreciated : )


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